


Your Broken Crown

by luculias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 158,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luculias/pseuds/luculias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seemed, for a time, that the only good Robert Baratheon ever did was marry his daughter to the heir of the North, Robb Stark. It seems now that it was the worst mistake the Baratheon king ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A little explaining beforehand (just to avoid any confusion):
> 
> The story begins four years before the events of A Game of Thrones, and Myrcella is about the age she is in the show. So then, at the time of Jon Arryn's death, she would be about Sansa’s age (fourteen), but all other ages are about the same as they are in the show. Basically, this is just a silly little fic I started piecing together when I was on a 10 hour flight and re-reading AFFC.

 

Her first thought was: _I quite like the North_.

She did not mind the cold like her mother did and she did not demand more coats as Joffrey did. She liked the way the white of the snow contrasted with the green of the lush hills and plains. _It’s romantic_ , she thought. It was surely a place for adventures and play.

She had heard stories of the Godswood, of the Heart tree that was nestled amongst the pine trees. The leaves themselves were said to whisper with the voices of their ancestors, guiding those who knew how to listen.

She did not see the Starks at first. She did not watch them from afar as her mother and brother did, rather, she looked around her, eyes wide in wonder. As much as she loved King’s landing – it was all she knew, after all – she could not deny the intrigue of Winterfell, of the ancient castle that was hidden away in the wild, magical North.

She heard her father’s laughter and she turned, in mild surprise, to see him embrace Lord Stark – “ _Ned!” -_ As her father would always exclaim at the mention of his dear, old friend. She watched, unsure, as her mother approached the Starks, curious as Lord Stark kissed her hand. Her mother had never spoken kindly of Lord Stark, though, her mother seldom spoke kindly of anyone.

It had taken a month to ride north - an _entire month_ in that blasted wheelhouse - and all there was waiting for them was a feast – something which her brother wouldn’t shut up about. She had not hoped for much, knowing that she would be forbidden to stray, her mother too fearful of all the beasts the North housed. But within her there had been hopes, hopes which flourished the moment they rode through the gates.

Myrcella was still staring in awe of the snow upon the ground as the party disbanded; her father disappeared with Lord Stark - off to see the dead girl, her mother hissed - whilst the rest entered the castle.

She was introduced to the Starks eventually.

She was introduced first to Lady Stark and Sansa, who were as much alike as Cersei and Myrcella. Arya, who was only perhaps a year younger than herself, pulled faces and did not appear to be listening as she was told her name. Then, after her father had emerged from the crypts, laughing, she met Robb, Jon the Bastard, Bran and little Rickon. She knew, though for reasons she did not yet know, not to smile at Jon the Bastard for long.

She smiled at Robb the most, thinking him handsome, like the knights in her songs. He made her cheeks flush when he called her pretty – pretty in a way a summer flower could only be. She knew he was only saying so to be kind, but she did not mind.

Jon Snow was quiet throughout the feast, almost sullen. He sat half-hunched in his furs, his expression grave and melancholy. Myrcella didn’t understand; she did not yet know what a bastard is. Innocence allowed her that.

She was not allowed the play that first day, as she had expected. Instead, she was forced to sit between her brothers and smile prettily, and watch the dancing and enjoy the feast she and her family had travelled so far to enjoy. Her mother made an occasional comment, something which she noted Lady Catelyn seemed to take with a pinch of salt.

 

\--

 

 

On the third day, she got to play.

She ran with Tommen across the frosty ground, giggling, behaving childishly (as children are meant to do, no matter what Joffrey had to say on the matter). Joffrey would not have joined them, not even if she had begged. But they did not miss him, they never did. Septa Eglantine trailed behind them, panting as she struggled to catch her breath.

They scampered through the Godswood, kicking up leaves and splashing each other with the muddy waters of whichever puddle they come across. Tommen's breathing came heavily, but he wouldn't let them stop, not even for a moment.

They came to a clearing in the woods gasping for breath amongst their giggles. The bruises on Tommen’s arms were fading, she noticed.

He did not allow himself to remember, but she did. She could not escape from it. Joffrey had always been mean-spirited, but never so much as he had been that day, when he had taken to beating his own brother simply because he was bored and had fallen into one of his foul moods. Her mother hadn’t believed it. And her father had been too drunk to either notice or care.

“Do you like it here, ‘Cella?” Tommen asked her as he settled beneath the branches of a bare birch tree. She smiled as she sank the floor beside him. She gave his chubby little hand a small squeeze and nodded.

“I quite enjoy the cold. It’s different.” She said, looking around her with a smile. She wanted nothing more than to find the nearest patch of snow, just so she could roll in it like a hound. She did not know the feel of snow upon bare flesh, whether it burned or froze.

Tommen pulled a face. “I don’t like the cold.”

“I know.” She said with a soft smile. “But we can like different things, you and I.”

Tommen’s little hand turned, his fingers opening and threading through the gaps between hers. Their hands, both small and delicate, fitted together as though they were made to do so. She felt the cold at the tips of his little fingers and the warmth at the heart of his palm. It made her smile. It had been so long since they had simply sat like this, away from the world, taking a moment to rest. Tommen had met each touch with a flinch since Joffrey. It was nice to know she was the first not to be met with fear.

“Are we staying here forever?” He asked her after sometime had passed, his head lifting from her shoulder. The gentle breeze ruffled his golden curls, lifting them from his forehead. She shifted, pressing a kiss to his fair brow, and shook her head as she drew away.

“We’ll be going home soon. Father just came here to see his dear friend. Once he has done that, we shall return home. I promise.”

 

 

\--

 

 

She did not know, was not told, until it was too late.

Her mother paced the room, fuming.

“Married? _Married_? Robert, she is not even one-and-ten and you’re already sending her away?” Her mother, beautiful, even in her anger, thrust her hands in her direction. Her hands moved in great sweeping gestures which were ignored by her drunken father. He simply shook his head, mouth opening for a moment as though to bellow for more wine.

Always more wine.

_Wine._

It was all he had to say, and he’d have it. Myrcella wondered whether life was like that for everyone. For every man, anyway. It certainly didn’t seem that easy for her mother, who was but a woman, small and unimportant – if her father was to be believed.

“Why not the child her own age, Robert? Or, better yet - why not the _bastard?_ What difference is it, after all, you seem to see our daughter - our _only_ daughter - as little more than a whore to please Ned Stark –”

Then there was that familiar sound.

It was not often that he did it in front of her, one of the children, but she knew the sound, and knew the sight of red and purple upon her mother’s cheek. Her mother did not scream, she did not cry out, and did not gasp. Her mother stumbled with the weight and the force behind it, clumsy hands knocking wine from the table. When her father saw the mess, he looked as though he might strike her again.

“Father!” Myrcella exclaimed, stumbling forward. She tripped slightly on her skirts as she hurried to his side, her gentle hands reaching for his. He looked down at her, anger undissipated, but cut short. “P – please. Tell me about Winterfell. Tell me about House Stark.”

And it was that simple.

She could see her mother in the corner of her eye, watching her, studying her. Myrcella sat close to her father, deaf to the stories of battle and glory and wolves and White Walkers. Her father told her those things not for her, but for himself. She was only a child and even she could see it. Instead of listening to her father’s exaggerated war stories, she watched her mother from the corner of her eye.

Her mother clutched her face with one hand, hiding the mark her husband had made, but she seemed to be smiling slightly, perhaps thinking that there was more Lannister in her daughter than she had expected. It had not all been wasted on Joffrey.

 

 

\--

 

 

“It is a fine match.” Her mother said, somewhat stiffly.

“Indeed it is. Given that she is so young, it will give them time to become acquainted with each other.” Lady Stark responded, her tone equally as stiff. She seemed no more comfortable in giving up her child than Cersei was.

Myrcella’s eyes flickered to her father. She watched him where he stood, laughing beside Lord Stark with his belly protruding. He had said (amongst bellows for more wine and women) that he had always intended on the Starks and the Baratheons being one, one way or another. Her uncle Jamie had told her that he told her father had suggested Robb because he too liked horses – but she doubted her father would ever be so observant.

She saw Robb Stark, sat beside his younger brother, Bran, and sister, Arya. They sat away from the others, in the far corner of the room. It was not where they had originated. She suspected that they had moved to escape the noise, something which she wished she could do. The bastard and the Greyjoy were absent, she couldn’t help but notice. She had not seen him without one of them since she had arrived.

Robb’s eyes rose as hers fell upon him and she felt herself flush. His expression was not unkind, but it was not welcoming either. His sister looked up too, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Myrcella. She leant into her brother’s side, whispering something. Robb didn’t say anything, but didn’t let his gaze drop. Myrcella wished it would. Maybe then she too could look away.

His brother and his sister both laughed, looking away from her, the stranger from the South. But he didn’t. He watched her, watching him, without a trace of humour. He gripped his fork tightly in one hand and she could see the pucker between his brows. He seemed just as confused, just as annoyed as she was, being promised to another, to someone who seemed to stand on the other side of a long off shore.

“He’s very handsome, my lady. He’ll be even more handsome when he is grown.” One of her servants told her in hushed, giggly tone that evening as she brushed her hair. Septa Eglantine flashed the girl a stern look, but it served to only make her giggle more. “Just you wait. It may seem like a punishment now, but come a few years, you’ll be begging to have him as your husband. Just you wait.”

Myrcella knew better than to scoff. Her manners were too inbred to ever do such a thing.

 

 

  --

 

 

Myrcella sensed that, though she was the only one being given away that day, there was to be an exchange, Sansa for Myrcella, Joffrey for Robb.

It seemed that both Sansa and Myrcella were promised that night, both given away. Sansa was the only one who seemed content with that. Myrcella watched the pretty Stark girl, with hair like fire, smile and flush when talking to her brother, unaware of what a beast he really is. She was so young, so innocent; Joffrey would ruin her.

Something within her longed to tell her, to finally tell someone of what he had done. Tommen still had his bruises, there was still proof.

Joffrey seemed to notice too. When her gaze flickered to him, his eyes would slide up and meet hers. Sometimes he’d smile, while other times, more often than not, he’d scowl. And when she left the hall, foolishly choosing to go to bed alone, he followed.

He caught her by the arm and dragged her to a dark corner. She tried to push him away, but it did not good. The walls of Winterfell, which she had thought were so welcoming, seemed to close in on her as Joffrey twisted her arm behind her back.

“Do you remember Tommen’s kittens, Myrcella? Do you? Because I remember.” Tears burned in the corners of her eyes. She bit her tongue and looked up at the ceiling, refusing to let him see her cry. “Look at me. _Myrcella,_ look – at - me _._ ”

Later, she told herself that she should have been prepared. But Joffrey, always so weak to his temper, snapped so easily. He struck her then for little more than her unwillingness to spare him a glance. Her head hit the stone wall beside her and she felt blood there, just above her temple. Joffrey didn’t seem to notice. If he had, she wasn’t sure what he would have done. She liked to think he would have stopped. His fingers twisted at her wrist, causing her to gasp.

“I know what you’re scheming, sweet sister. But you’re not going to tell my lady Sansa _anything._ ” She thought of Tommen’s bruises and it was that, and that alone, which made her hold her tongue. “Because she will be my lady, just like you’ll be the Stark’s little whore.”

“I won’t!” She cried, suppressing a sob as he finally released her. Joffrey had twisted the skin of her wrist, leaving angry red marks behind. It stung, but far worse was the knock to her head. The blood was now trailing down her cheek. “I won’t say anything!”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Joffrey pressed a kiss to her cheek before he left, pleased, and acting as though he were the sweet brother he should have been.

She suppressed a sob as she was left alone in the darkness. She had always been able to stand up to Joffrey, but something had changed within her the day she had seen what was truly inside of him. She feared that he would do to her what he had done to Tommen.

As she pressed her sleeve to her temple, the castle suddenly felt so much colder than it had been before. She wondered, in the midst of her self-pity, whether Joffrey would be like their father, if he would take to striking his wife whenever he saw fit. She wondered how long it would take before Sansa saw the truth behind Joffrey’s handsome, Lannister grin. The poor girl...

“Princess?” She shouldn’t have been surprised to be found. Whenever she wished to be alone, she never was. Looking up with a quiet sigh, she was met with the surprised, and albeit, confused faces of Robb and Bran Stark, following closely by the bastard, Jon Snow. Robb’s eyes dropped the moment she looked at him, his hands twisting together in front of him.

“Oh. Hello, my lords.” Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she smiled courteously at the two Starks, avoiding glancing at Jon Snow when she spoke of the titles which he would never bare. She may not have known what a bastard was, but she knew better than to call someone what they weren’t. “How are you all this evening? Doing well, I hope.”

“Are – are you alright, Princess?” Jon Snow pointed at her wrist, whilst Robb stared at her bloody sleeve, his eyes travelling up until he saw it. She might have been embarrassed if not for the concern which was so obvious on their faces.

“Yes, thank you. It’s nothing. I fell, that’s all.” She mustered a smile and cast a glance around them. She wasn’t quite sure where they were. It was dark, quiet, but not far from the noise and the buzz of the hall. It was too dark to see much, too late for candles to be of much use.

“Liar.” Bran said, though not unkindly. Robb elbowed him, hard, in the ribs.

When the two Starks and their half brother took her to the kitchen, she wasn’t quite sure what she expected. Robb didn’t look at her, but she didn’t blame him. She couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him either.

When they entered the kitchen, descending the pokey staircase down into the servants’ quarters, Bran hopped up onto the table in the centre of the large kitchen, ignoring the servant who awkwardly lingered at the stove. He seemed so entirely at ease there, as though it were commonplace for a young lord to be seen in the servant's quarters. His legs swung loose, knocking into Robb’s back as he ran a cloth under the taps.

Myrcella watched him as he rung it out and she frowned a little when he handed it to her. She stared at it, one part of her confused and the other part not wanting some dirty dishcloth anywhere near her.

“What is this for, my lord?” She asked sincerely, earning a giggle from Bran. Robb did not say anything. She was glad he didn’t. Instead, he dragged two stools and sat down on one and gestured wordlessly for her to sit down on the other. She lowered herself reluctantly, allowing for him to shift closer. She flushed as he reached out, an uncertain hand brushing her long hair from her face. The damp cloth was dabbed against where it hurt at her temple, the once off-white cloth coming away red. _Oh,_ she thought, feeling foolish.

She had never quite looked at her betrothed properly, not like this, never once this close, only ever from afar. When they had first arrived, she’d thought him handsome and she turned pink at the sight of his smile. But, she supposed, that had not been real. She had seen him as a knight from a song, not as a real person, not as her betrothed.

His hands were large and slightly calloused, but they were gentle upon her face. She watched him, curious, as he bit down upon his lower lip, concentrating. He was not much older than her, but he was not close to her age either. She supposed that he was several years older than Joffrey, perhaps one-and-four or one-and-five. He was handsome, in a boy-ish sort of way, with hair caught between the red of his mother and the brown of his father and siblings. His features were not as dark as the others, but he was a Stark, all the same. His lashes were long, tipped with gold and his eyes were blue, and cold, like the stormy skies of the North. 

It was strange; she could not help but think, at how different the Starks all were, yet somehow still alike. They were not like her and her brothers, all Lannister in their golden hair and green eyes.

“You didn’t fall.” Robb Stark said to her, lifting his head. She saw that his chin jutted out, just like his brother’s had when he had called her a liar. They were a stubborn sort, the Starks. So Myrcella shook her head, knowing that she would not win this game.

“We might go riding tomorrow. You can come with us, if you like.” Bran Stark said from the table. His smile was so genuine that she could not stop herself from returning it.

“Thank you, my lord.” She said, knowing already that her mother would forbid it. “That is very gracious of you.”

“What’s the South like?” Bran asked, hopping down from the table.

“Warmer than here,” She said, earning a laugh from even the bastard, who had stood by the doorway and not made a sound. “And… busy. I don’t like it very much. I think I prefer it here, my lord.”

 

 

\--

 

 

An arrangement was proposed. Cersei won. She always did.

It was decreed that Myrcella would spend half of the year in the South and the rest in the North until she was of age to be married.

She did not get the chance to speak to Robb and Bran Stark before she and her family returned to the Kingsroad. She saw them though, stood in line as they had been on that first day, but there to say their courteous goodbyes this time. She thought, perhaps, as she helped Tommen up into the wheelhouse, that she saw Robb cast a glance at her. But she could have been wrong.

“I cannot believe you promised him to one so young.” She had heard Lady Catelyn say to her husband, echoing the words which her mother would hiss to her father whenever Robb Stark was mentioned in her company.

“The North is no place for her. She belongs –”

“She won’t be a child forever, Cersei.” Either one of her uncles, Jamie or Tyrion would say, causing her mother to make even more of a fuss.

“She’s my daughter. My _only_ daughter. And you are taking her from me.” Her mother would snap in response, ensuring a bruised and awkward silence. Sometimes, Myrcella would be tempted to reach across and take her mother’s hand, but she never did, for during the journey back home, her hands belonged to one and one alone – Tommen.

He never let go, and neither did she.

  

 

\--

_Anyone but us is the enemy._

She had always been taught to rely on blood and blood alone. Her heart could belong to only those whose blood she shared – her family, but most of all, her children. She could only ever let herself to fully love her children. She could love a wolf or a bear or a dragon. She was a lioness. Lions stuck with their own, their pride.

But as she entered Winterfell and was welcomed back into the arms of the North, she did not feel as far from her own as she should have. There was not a lion in sight. They were gone, left behind. All there were were wolves. As she climbed out of the wheelhouse, she glanced at Ser Arys and Ser Preston and saw that both knights stood with their hands sitting atop the pommels of their swords. Neither one of them looked at ease here.

It was strange to think that it had only been half a year since she had last been here.

Joffrey had spoken of Sansa on occasion, boasting about how she was going to be his wife and his queen. He had thought it quite funny that she was being made to marry Robb, as though her escaping him and King’s Landing was something she should have been upset about. It had not been difficult to say goodbye to him, only Tommen had forced a lump into her throat, making the threat of tears very much real.   

They had never had to say goodbye to each other before, and while she knew that goodbyes were never forever, the further the carriage rode from him, the more it felt as though it were. She had dug her nails into her palms thinking about what might come of her sweet brother in her absence. She was gone, meaning Joffrey was free to behave in his usual fashion. Without her there, there were only adults to protect Tommen from his brother, who she knew she could not blame, for he didn’t know any better.

Her uncle Jamie, she had supposed, a day into the journey, would protect him. He had always done his best in the past. Sometimes, in idle passing, she had wondered why that was, even though the answer was always tucked into the back of her mind, always just out of reach, just waiting for the day when she finally could.

“Princess Myrcella, how lovely it is to see you again.”

It had been half a year, but from what she could see, Winterfell hadn’t changed. The walls were still high and made from stone, the ground still covered lightly in snow, the sky still hidden away by thick clouds. It was still beautiful, and that was all that mattered to her. She smiled properly for the first time since she had left home.

“Thank you, Lord and Lady Stark.” She replied, remembering her manners as she lowered herself into a curtsy. The ground crunched underfoot as she rose and was greeted, one by one, by Lord and Lady Stark. Lady Catelyn kissed her on the cheek, something she hadn’t expected.

“It’s lovely to see you again. I hope the journey was pleasant.”

“It was very pleasant. Thank you, Lady Stark.”

“Call me Catelyn, please.”

That was all it took for the memory of her mother, in those months, to be eclipsed by the unfamiliar maternal kindness which was Catelyn Stark, as she, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, warmed to her and made her feel as though a lion could be loved by a wolf.

 

\--

 

 

It was not the smiles, the glamour nor the pomp that welcomed her home, but the anger and the tension.

First it was her father, barking orders at her mother, then her uncle, hissing whispered threats under his breath.

The others did not see – could not possibly see – what was as obvious to Myrcella as a knife to the throat. Her mother and father had been exchanging harsh words in private. Joffrey had been upset by something – or perhaps someone – and most of all, most importantly, Tommen was absent.  

She had looked for him the moment she had stepped into view of her family, her father sat slouched upon his throne and her mother sat beside him, not waiting in a line, ready to embrace her, as it had been in Winterfell.

It had been difficult for her to leave the North.

She had missed her brother, missed his sweetness and missed his smile, just as much as she had feared for him. She had feared every day that they were apart what Joffrey could be doing to him without her there to protect him. She had missed him and thought of him every day she was away from him, but all the same, she had grown to love the North.

She had allowed herself to grow close to those who her mother would call her captors. She found herself attached quite quickly to Lady Catelyn, who treated her with more kindness and care than her mother ever had. And though she loved her mother with all her heart, she could not deny that the warmth and affection Lady Catelyn had treated her with would be missed.

It would be a lie, however, to say that she would miss Robb Stark.

In her time in the North, she had spoken to her betrothed perhaps once or twice, and only ever in the passing. He looked away when she looked at him, disappeared during the day and the evenings, often missing dinner to be absent with the Greyjoy and the bastard. But she had never minded. She hadn't needed his attention when she had the kindness and the respect of the other Starks, those who could look at her and not resent her for reasons which were out of her control.

She had hoped, as she journeyed to Winterfell that they would speak as they had done during her previous visit that they would grow close and almost be considered friends. She had hoped he would smile at her and hand her the same flower, making it a tradition of sorts, but he didn’t.

Her mother smiled at her as she stepped up to meet her. She drew her close and embraced her tightly for a long moment. Her mother’s hair smelt the same as it had when she was very little, a smell which had always comforted her. She felt her lip tremble slightly when her mother released her and moved away.

Her father rose eventually, hugging her tightly, as though he had missed her – as though he had noticed her absence.

“Mother, where is Tommen?” She asked as Joffrey reluctantly welcomed back the guards who had escorted her, who had been so oddly kind to her on the kingsroad. She kept her eyes on her brother, making sure only her mother could hear her. “Why has he not come to see me?”

Her mother hesitated. “He is – resting.”

_Resting._

Myrcella knew that word.

Her father was only _resting_ when he was absent on her nameday, her mother was only _resting_ when she disappeared for several hours, her brother was only _resting_ when he was too frightened of Joffrey to leave his chambers. Myrcella glared at her mother, pushing all of the blame onto her. Her mother did not seem to notice. Brushing past her, her mother moved to Joffrey’s side.

Watching her from her over shoulder, Myrcella watched as her mother brushed a strand of hair off of her brother’s forehead and wrapped her arms around his shoulder. She called Joffrey her ‘sweetling’, something which he had not been since he was a babe nursing from her mother’s breast. Myrcella bristled slightly, ashamed of the envy which flooded through her at the sight of her mother treating her brother with more care than he would ever deserve.

Brushing down her skirts, Myrcella did not allow herself to be embraced by her brother; rather, nodding stiffly, she moved off to find Tommen. They did not seem to notice her leave, too caught up in themselves and their own thoughts to see their princess move past them and through the doors to the Red Keep.

The time apart had altered her, in many more ways than she had expected. Being there, back home, where she was supposed to belong, she could feel the difference in herself as she had not been able to when she had been in Winterfell.

She saw the word less like a child than she had before. She looked at her parents wishing she saw the two Starks in their place. She longed for the kind face of Lady Catelyn and the faint, understanding smile of Lord Eddard. She had glimpsed something which she had not known in Winterfell. She had seen the Starks and seen the love which they held for each other, something she had never seen in her parents.

She had been stripped of her innocence, almost. She had been stripped of the blindness she had had to her parents’ faults and to the strangeness of her life in King’s landing. Her eyes had been opened, never to close again.

Pushing open the doors to Tommen’s chambers, she felt herself smile properly for the first time since she had left Winterfell.

“Tommen.” She breathed at the sight of her brother.

Stood by one of the many great windows of the Red Keep, her brother turned at the sight of her voice. With aging bruises littering his arms, her little brother cuddled a small kitten to his person, smiling in spite of all the wrongs which had been inflicted upon him.

“I was wondering where the Prince of Kittens was!”

“Myrcella!” Carefully placing the small, grey kitten on the floor, her brother bounded towards her, the weight of his embrace leaving her breathless and giggling, childishly, as she had not done in what felt like so long.

She drew him away from her after a long moment, hands running through his golden hair, cupping his small round face. She pressed light kisses to his cheeks, to the tip of his small freckled nose, to his forehead, carefully avoiding any bruise that came in her path. She felt him squirm, giggling as he slipped from her embrace. His smile was sunny; it was a warmth she wished she could bring with her when she was sent back to the North.

“What has he done to you?” She whispered as, pulling him by the hand, she led her brother the window. In the bright midday light, so harsh and unforgiving, there were no shadows to conceal the truth from her. Looking at him, bruised with no one to comfort him in her absence, she found herself having to turn away to disguise her tears.

“Please don’t go away again,” He murmured, his eyes welling with tears as she looked to him. Her lower lip quivered as he reached out with trembling fingers to touch her damp cheek. “I missed you too much.”

“If I could put you in my pocket and sneak you to Winterfell, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

It was all she could say. She couldn’t lie to him, not when she knew that there would come a day when she would leave for good and she could have to leave Tommen and this life behind. 

 

 

\--

 

 

Staring down at the stained sheets, she did not see new life, but death.

She should have been happy. She had been blessed with her moon’s blood early. She would be one-and-three in a month’s time, yet, it seemed, she was already a woman. She was supposed to be happy.

She had always imagined the day she became a woman as a joyous one. She had thought she would have been in King’s landing, close to her mother. She had thought she would become a woman and then she would be married to someone who loved her with his whole heart. But instead, she was promised to someone who could barely look at her, let alone love her.

Lady Catelyn stared down at the ruined sheet and waved away her servants when Myrcella began to cry. Robb’s mother sat down beside her on the edge of the bed and took her hand in hers. _I want my mother,_ she wanted to yell. _I want to go home._

“What if he does not love me? What if he _never_ loves me?” She exclaimed, unashamed of her outburst. She looked up at Catelyn, her green eyes wide and beseeching. She could look at the bloody sheets no longer. “What will I do then? Am I cursed to live the same miserable life as my mother, with a man who cannot stand the sight of me?”

She had expected disappointment from the mother of her soon-to-be husband, but rather, Lady Catelyn smiled, as she always didMyrcella was once again asking herself why she always confused the actions of her own mother with everyone else. Did kindness not exist in the world because Cersei Lannister didn’t demonstrate it enough? No, of course it was still there, lying not on a far shore, but for once, within her reach.

Lifting her hand, she touched Catelyn’s fingers, feeling them tighten slightly around her shoulder; giving her what she assumed was a confronting squeeze.

“I will tell you exactly what I told my son; love… it can be built and it can be worked at until one day, rather than simply happening at first glance, it appears and that kind of love is stronger. I believe that kind of love never disappears.” She had been embraced them, her shaking form taken – unexpectedly – into the arms of her mother in the North. The bloody sheets had been gone – hastily taken away by servants – before she had stepped out of the embrace, all traces of what had come in the night and stole from her all the time and innocence childhood had given her. “Why don’t we wait? You’re much too young to be married yet. Why don’t we wait until you visit again to make the announcement?”

Even if she did not have Robb’s love, at least, in part, she had some of Catelyn’s.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, if it wasn't clear in the previous chapter, Myrcella, until the age of fourteen/she bled/is a "woman", would spend half the year in Winterfell and then the rest in King's Landing. I've tried, also, to take scenes directly from the book and from the show to kind of show how it would be if Myrcella were there and how that would affect them. It's more so in the later chapters, so, anyho', I'll stop typing and babbling now. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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**\-  Robb  -**

He could still remember the day he was introduced to her, she who was to be his wife.

He’d thought she was pretty, but young. Too young. A child. Theon had joked that all Lannisters were pretty, even the men. And he’d found it funny at the time. He could still see his mother’s face when the news was announced, remembering so clearly the way her eyebrows shot up for a moment, then, coughing quietly, she schooled her feature into a smile.

The Ice Queen, on the other hand, had made no effort to conceal her feelings on the matter. She’d dropped her fork and glowered at her husband all evening, seeming more upset about the news rather than the way he flirted and touched anything with tits. The King had amused him and Theon, that was, until, the news was leaked. Then he hated him. Robb hated him for using Sansa and himself as pawns in some little game, all so that the Starks and Baratheons would be friends again.

He had looked at the child once that night, looking to the little child who they were going to make him marry. She was barely older than Arya, he had thought to himself bitterly as he watched her. She had sat to herself, all prim and proper, looking down at her little hands. She had looked up for a moment, as though she could feel his eyes on her. He had looked away, looking to his mother, refusing to meet the glance of the child. If he glared at her, they would surely have his head. So he glared at his mother instead.

He had hoped that of all people, his mother would understand, but she ended up being like all the rest – giving it all up in the sake of pleasing some fat oaf of a king and his scowling queen.

“I won’t marry her. She’s a child. Give her to Bran or Rickon.” He had snapped later that evening, pacing away from his mother until he had reached the window which overlooked the courtyard. He could see her from there, the small, golden haired child, stood with her brother, examining the snow as though it were some foreign entity. He frowned at the irony of it all. Soon, ice and snow would be all the girl knew.

“Are you trying to tell me that you will defy the kindness of a king, all because the girl is not  _pleasing?_   Have sense, Robb.” He had turned to his mother, wanting nothing more than to release the anger which felt as though it were burning a hole in his chest. She had come to him, moving slowly, as though approaching an untamed beast, as though she knew exactly what thoughts were running through his mind. Her soft blue eyes had been impossibly wide, trying to fill him – he could only guess – with guilt.

“You cannot make me marry her. I will not be made to marry a child.” He had snapped, looking back to his mother with both fury and desperation clouding his features. His hands had almost shaken with all the emotions which had coursed through him – anger, fear, betrayal, horror, sadness…

“Your father didn’t love me when we married. He probably did not wish to marry me either.” His mother had said, very slowly, and then very carefully, placing her hand on his shoulder. She had looked at him and smiled, eyes shifting to look out the window. “He hardly knew me or I him. Love didn’t just happen to us. We built it slowly over the years, stone by stone, for you, for your brothers and sisters, for all of us. It’s not as exciting as secret passion in the woods, but it is stronger.  _It lasts longer.”_

He had paused for a moment. His anger cut short.

He had looked at his mother, watched the emotions play out over her features as she spoke about his father, the man she loved. It was hard for him to think of a time when she had not loved him. It was hard for him to imagine, however, his life following their path with the child which stood in the courtyard with his little brothers.

“I am not Father and Princess Myrcella is not you! I do not wish to marry her because I do not know her – will not know her – and I know that, no matter how much I try, I do not – and  _will not_  – love her.” He had yelled, forgetting, in an instant, that all girls grew, one day, into women.

He had hated the girl, and purposely ignored her during her time in Winterfell – the months which, ironically, had been given so that they could come to know one and other. He had left her to be entertained by Sansa, left her to be glowered at by Arya, and left her to be taught how to ride a horse by his younger brothers.

Theon had asked him once why he never so much as looked at the girl and he hadn’t had an answer for him. He had thought of her smile when she had first arrived, the faint pinkness to her cheeks and the way she had looked at him, with blood running down her face after – supposedly – falling, and he hadn’t known. The girl herself was surely of a sweet disposition, but the betrothal that hung between them soured that, leaving her not so much as a person, but as another chain, linking him to one thing – one place – for all his life.

What made it worse was that there was no escaping it. Not unless he took the Black as his uncle Benjen had done; where he would spend his life in black and never know what he truly desired – what it was to love, to  _truly_  love.

He had thought her a child, someone he would never love, but there she was.

She had not come to Winterfell for half a year as she was supposed to, her absence due to an illness of some kind he had heard his mother say. It had been a year and a half since he had laid eyes upon the girl, a year and a half which had changed many aspects of the girl he had considered his greatest punishment.

He wasn’t quite sure what drew his eye to her, what stopped him from looking the other way, as he had been doing for the past three years. Perhaps it was that she wore the vivid red colour of her mother’s house - something he could not ignore - or that she did not stand silently beside the wheelhouse, waiting to be greeted, speaking only when spoken to.

He watched her from where he stood, half leaning against the walls of Winterfell with Jon, bemused by the way that she smiled at Sansa before she – with an even brighter smile – stepped forward to embrace his mother. His eyebrows shot up when his mother openly returned the embrace, arms wrapping around the girl with more enthusiasm than he would have expected from her.

He had not noticed until that moment, that all in Winterfell, save himself and perhaps Arya, were glad of the princess’s return.

He might have turned away, annoyed that everyone seemed to like the girl he had resigned himself to dislike, had she not looked over to him. Her eyes shifted from his mother and father to him, her expression fading from sunny to pensive in only a single beat.

She seemed less like a girl than she had once been, he noticed. Her eyes still seemed to shine with what was lost with childhood – but there was something, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“She’s grown herself some teats.” Theon muttered from behind him, appearing as though from nowhere. “When did your little lady arrive then?”

Lowering his eyes a fraction, Robb noted that Theon wasn’t far from the truth.

It had only been a less than two years, but fading were those awkward limbs of childhood, replaced with a sort of quiet grace he supposed was inborn with princesses. Her dress seemed to be shaped to emphasis the slight curve of hips and the bodice was made of a material of deep red – Lannister red, drawing the eye to the soft, subtle hint of cleavage.

But even that was not it.

It was the way she looked at him. Whereas before she had blushed, tucking that long hair behind her ears and looking over to her mother for reassurance, she was meeting his gaze with a slight pucker between her brows, as though she were just as unsure about him as he was of her.

It was then that he realised that she was just like him – stuck.

It hit him hard and filled him with guilt.

She had not asked for this; for what he had allowed himself to despise her for. For all he knew, she probably hated him in return for what neither of them had any control over.

Stepping out, much to the surprise of both himself and his mother – who raised her eyebrows at him - he moved to greet the girl.

“Princess Myrcella.” He said, unsure of what else he could say to her.

“Oh,” Was all she said. Her lips twisted, as though she were trying to understand a question he hadn’t even known he had asked her. He watched her, as equally as bewildered, as her pale brows drew together as she looked at him once again, confusion darkening her fair features. “Forgive me. What a pleasure it is to see you again, my lord.”

She was all about her ‘my lords’ and ‘your graces’. It made him uncomfortable.

Her hand was small, the tips of her fingers very cold as he took them in his, raising them to lay a kiss upon the back of her hand.

He had done it once before, when she had first arrived, before the betrothal had been pushed upon them. Her cheeks had flushed pink then, her smile bright and sweet – but that was merely a ghost of what it was at that moment.

Lips lingering upon her hand, his eyes rose, meeting hers. Her eyebrows had risen, the confusion gone, but replaced with surprise as, very slowly, a smile spread across her face, meeting her eyes and making them shine. He wondered if, when she was not smiling out of courtesy, those green eyes always shone.

She was shepherded away quickly, her small hand slipping out of his. He watched her move away, his mother’s arm linking through hers. She looked back at him for a moment, briefly looking to him once more. He thought, perhaps, that he saw a smile touching her lips before she disappeared into the main hall for the welcoming feast.

He found himself watching her from then on, observing what he had ignored during her past visits. It did not take long for him to see that though she looked like her mother, there was not a trace of her mother’s coldness within her.

He did not speak to her during the feast, knowing not what to say. But he sat, eyes fixed on her, whilst Theon spoke of matters he did not know.

He was conflicted, as he looked at her, with strange feelings that were a mixture of confusion and curiosity. He was caught thinking about how strange it was to think of her being his wife, someone who would bear his children, who would surely be with him until his dying day. She would carry his name, be the mother of the children who would be lords and ladies of Winterfell long after he was gone.

She would be the next Lady of Winterfell – and she was just a child.

Robb had never asked for much, not some great love story which ended with wars and triumphs and tragedies, but he had always had a hope that he would have a love which was his own. He had always thought he would be able to choose his wife and have a love which was like his parents, one of respect and affection. He had had a number of expectations, none of which were the Baratheon girl. Nonetheless, he could not deny that she was beautiful.

He had always wanted to marry someone beautiful, someone who would give him pretty babes.

If they had children, he hoped that they would have her smile.

 

 

\--

The snow had come down heavily in the night, leaving Winterfell under a thick layer of snow. His father said that in the Godswood everything as far as the eye could see was white, save the burning crimson of the weirwood’s leaves.

He had heard Rickon’s shrieks all morning as their mother wrestled with him, trying to get him to wrap up warmly. His youngest brother had emerged from his chambers, red-faced and ears stubbornly sticking out from beneath Bran’s old fur hat. His mother had followed closely behind him, as equally red in the face. She’d huffed when she met his gaze and warned him not to go out without his winter cloak.

“Come with me,” his mother had said and he’d followed without a second thought. He’d thought she was instructing him to join her for lunch, but instead, there he was, stood awkwardly beside her as she knocked on the door of the sept and interrupted Septa Mordane’s lessons.

The septa answered the door moments later, her bony face lighting up at the sight of his mother. He’d never have admitted it to anyone, but he’d always been a little frightened of the septa growing up – and still was; there was something about her sharp, watchful eyes that made him nervous.

“Good morning, my lady. The ladies and the princess were just practicing their needlework.” Septa Mordane said quietly, and he looked around her to see Sansa and Myrcella sat on two chairs and Arya on the floor between them. Arya was glaring down at her needlework as if it had insulted her. “Sansa’s work is as pretty as she is,” she told his lady mother. “She has such fine, delicate hands.”

His mother smiled. “And Arya?”

The septa sniffed and cast a withering glance over her shoulder.

“Arya has the hands of a blacksmith.”

Arya lifted her head at that and glared. Sansa was trying in vain to hide her slight smirk, while there was an uncertain look on Myrcella’s face, like she wasn’t sure if she was meant to feel sorry for his sister or laugh. Robb was tempted to laugh at the look of indignation on his sister’s face, but knew better – there would be hell to pay later if she caught him laughing at her.

“This is stupid! Her stitches are crooked too!” Arya snapped, pointing a finger at Myrcella. The septa gasped at that and hurried over to where her sister was sat, no doubt ready to box her ears.

“You will not address our royal princess in such a manner!” Septa Mordane shrieked. “Apologise, now! How dare you behave in such a manner in front of the princess and your lady mother! You’d think you were raised by wolves, child!”

“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed, crying out when Arya jumped to her feet and knocked her needlework off of her lap. “Mother look what she did!”

“Arya, enough. Apologise to Septa Mordane and Princess Myrcella.” His mother ordered wearily, watching the scene unfolding in front of her with an exasperated sigh.

“It’s quite alright -” Myrcella began to say, but was quickly cut off by Arya’s tantrum and Septa Mordane’s shrieks. He glanced at his mother, wondering if all their lessons resulted in this, and she just rolled her eyes.

“Robb, please escort Princess Myrcella back to the castle while I sort out this mess.” His mother called to him over the noise. Arya was now in the middle of throwing Sansa’s needlework out of the window of the sept, while the septa was soothing Sansa, who was furious and on the edge of tears. The princess was watching it all go on around her with a bewildered expression, probably asking herself if she was the only sane one amongst them. Which she was. Without a doubt.

With no small amount of reluctance, he strode over to Princess Myrcella and offered her his arm.

“Princess,” he said in greeting. “My mother asked me to escort you back to the castle.”

“Thank you. That is most kind of you.” She murmured as she accepted his arm. It was as they stepped out of the sept and into the cold that he realised he’d never seen her this close up before. Like his brother, she was bundled up from head to toe but her cheeks and the tip of her nose flushed red from the cold the moment they stepped outside. She was prettier up close; he liked the little freckles dotted along her nose.

The snow had picked up again in the few minutes they’d been inside, drifting lightly from the clouded sky, slowly and lazily. Myrcella tilted her head up and smiled at him with snowflakes melting on her eyelashes. He opened his mouth to ask her something, but quickly forgot what he was going to say when she slipped her arm out of his.

“You don’t have to take me to the castle.” She said, eyes fixed on the snow.

“My mother asked me to.”

She smiled slightly. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He almost walked away. _Almost._ There were a million and one things he could be doing, but instead, he chose to stay. He wasn’t sure why. Curiosity, perhaps. His eyes followed her as she wandered through the snow, his feet rooted to the spot. After a moment she turned and raised an eyebrow at him. He felt himself – to his shame – flush slightly.

“I – I would rather do as my mother asked, princess. You could catch your death out here.”

But Myrcella just smiled.

“Is that so?” She said, and for a brief instant, he could have sworn she was going to run away from him and make him chase after her. But instead, that brief, mischievous smile faded and she just shrugged. “As you wish, my lord. We couldn’t want to disappoint your lady mother.”

She didn’t retake his arm, but she walked back to the castle by his side with snowflakes melting in her hair. When she looked up at him and smiled slightly, he felt himself flush even brighter red. His cheeks were still warm when they sat down for lunch, and he was certain he wasn’t the only one who knew it wasn’t from the cold.

 

 

 

\--

 

He didn’t want her to go.

She was leaving and for the first time, he felt certain that he might long for her face when it was not there. He was afraid that he would miss her, and miss seeing her sat in the hall across the room from him, each day.

Somehow (and very much against his will), in the time she had been there, his feelings had changed. That bitterness had been replaced with… with… stirrings. Stirrings which one day would – surely - become love, the love which his parents surely had: a slow love, one which took time, but one which would last through anything.

It had taken time, but in that time, he had come to care, just as his mother always said he would. And he felt it – those strange stirrings - in some moments when he looked at her. Only then, when he was looking at her, did he feel it.

He wasn’t accustomed to the feeling, something which was caught between desire and the love which he bared for his family. It had, at first, left him confused. He hadn’t understood it, hadn’t realised from whence it came.

And it was a strange feeling, one he had not noticed for some time.

It had taken him even longer to realise that these – stirrings were caused by her. He felt them, those accursed stirrings, sometimes when he looked at her and saw her smile. It was always the smile that did it, what stopped him in his tracks, what left him short of breath.

It had not taken him long at all to grow to love that smile of hers.

It started slow, as though she were hesitant, and then, all at once, there it was. As bright and as radiant as the sun.

And as he had not in the past visits of hers, he tried to know her in what would surely be her last visit before they were wed (he assumed, primarily, based on the looks he saw passed between his parents and Theon’s remark -  _with teats like those, she’ll bleed soon enough_.)

He made an effort to try to find time to speak to her, to find something new to talk about. And whenever they did, they only ever spoke briefly, touching on the weather, their moods, how they slept. They never spoke of grand issues and avoided any talk of their marriage. But even in such short – and undeniably sweet – intervals, he felt as though he had come to know her and her him.

The princess was of sweet sentiment, as he had been told all along, but with a certain spirit to her. She reminded him, in certain moments, of his youngest sister, Arya. He saw it in the way her eyes flashed in annoyance over certain things or the stubbornness with only showed around those she seemed comfortable with.

He watched for those moments, cherishing them.

And though he saw that part of her only briefly and on rare moments when she was no aware eyes could see her, he could see a flare of wilding nature in her. The same flare he saw in Arya. They were of like minds, it seemed, but Myrcella seemed strangely unaware of it – something he expected had been drilled out of her by her mother, the Ice Queen.

He cherished those little moments of anger, of stubbornness, of something other than the polite mannerisms which must have been forced down her throat since birth. 

He cherished them because when he saw them he saw her, not as a princess, but as, simply, a girl. She seemed to stand at some far away shore, so strangely distant from him, when she was the person she seemed to expect herself to be – something no person could ever be, not if they wished to be happy, but when she was broken down slightly, showing off the true colours beneath that royal flesh, he felt as though he knew her.

All he could do was pray that once they were wed, she wouldn’t be afraid to let go of whatever lessons she had been taught and trust him enough to be what she truly was beneath all those manners and courtesies.

“Would you like to dance?” He had asked her one night, something he had never done before. Myrcella had looked up at him, caught off in the middle of her sentence. She’d been talking to his brother, Bran, about something which had made Rickon laugh. Bran and Rickon always talked about her when she left them to go back to the South. They cared for her too, it seemed. He had been pleased. He couldn’t have himself a wife whom no one loved.

“Oh – yes, thank you.” She had replied quickly, hurriedly, embarrassedly. She had flushed as she gathered her skirts on her pretty jade dress and stood up. Her eyes had risen to his when he had reached out and taken her hand. She had smiled very slightly before her eyes had dropped, her face hidden behind a mane of those lovely golden curls. “My Lord.”

The feel of her little hand was always soft in his. Soft, just like the touch of pink to her cheeks whenever their eyes met. He found himself sometimes wishing he could run his fingers through her golden curls, just so he could know the feel of them.

Her fingers had wrapped around his loosely as he led her from the tables to the centre of the hall. There were others dancing, filling the hall with laughter. Her eyes had remained at her feet, her long eyelashes brushing against the tops of her flushed cheeks.

It was only when she had finally looked at him that he drew her close.

She had smiled when he had bowed slightly, smirking as he hoped to mimic the preposterous dancing he had seen when the royal party had first visited. She had laughed, causing her to step on her skirts and stumble slightly. That had only made her laugh more. The brightness of her smile had been almost blinding. It had been difficult for him to understand how anyone could look at anything else when the loveliness of her smile was there for all the world to see.

When they had danced together for the first time, it hadn't been something which songs where sung about. He had stepped on her feet twice and a lock of her curly hair had hit him in the eye as she was spun away from him, but nonetheless, at the time, he had thought that there had been a sort of beauty to it. It wasn’t ground-breaking or something which all the kingdoms would talk of, but it was something that he would – for whatever reason – always remember.

That moment had passed and there he was, stood outside her door, wishing not for her to go. Rapping his knuckles against the thick wood of her door, he heard her call back for him to wait a moment. He felt himself sigh, fingers running restlessly through his hair.

After a moment, a moment which felt much longer than it was, the door to her chambers opened, and Myrcella stepped outside. She was dressed for dinner, her long hair released from the loose braid it had been in all during the day. Again, he found himself staring at those gold curls, wondering how they would feel like between his fingers, whether they would be soft like her hands were.

“Will you be leaving in the morning?” He found himself asking, forgetting his manners instantly. Myrcella raised her head a fraction, her pale eyebrows knitting together. She seemed to be caught off guard by the abruptness of his question. “Sorry – I just – I just wanted to know, is all.”

“Well – yes, I will be. Why do you ask, my lord?”

“I don’t want you to go.” There it was. Out in the open. There was no taking it back now. Robb found himself wincing, wishing there was a way for him to take the words back and present them in a more appealing manner. A manner she was more used to, perhaps, laced with pleasantries and manners and all the good things he had never had much time for.

“I don’t have to go.” She said after a very long, awkward moment. She finally looked up at him, meeting his eyes properly. Her face was a picture of confusion, but behind it, there was a sort of fear in her green eyes, a fear he didn’t quite understand.

“You don’t?”

“I am old enough now to be wed.” She said, the words hollow, as though they had been repeated many times before. “If you wish it so, then –”

“But what about you? How do you feel?” He shouldn’t have asked. This was not one of those moments where the walls of her castle were down. He couldn’t see those glimmers. He saw only the princess who had been taught to be polite, to please rather than to feel. “If you don’t wish to be married now, then I’ll wait.”

“If it is what you desire, then -” He almost sighed again. How much would it take for her to break through that tight control she had over what she said or felt? He almost asked her. He would have stopped her, said  _anything_ to stop her from speaking to him as though she were a servant, if she hadn’t spoken first, cutting herself off. He thought he saw a hint of irritation to the way that her lips twisted slightly. “I do not wish for you to marry me just because I am of age and you feel you must. I – I’m afraid that we’ll be wed and I will be like my mother.”

“Your mother?” He frowned. He didn't understand.

“I  _know_  she doesn’t love my father and… and he doesn’t love her. That’s not what I want for my life.”

Robb, in spite of everything and the tears which he could see in her eyes, smiled faintly.

As Myrcella exclaimed - for once revealing the truth that lay behind that mask - he could see more than a glimmer of what was truly there, what was hidden away behind manners and properness. He could see the fear which he had seen in her as a little girl, trying to hide what another had inflicted upon her. He could see the fears she had, the anger which she held in her heart for her parents and he thought he could see hope – hope, somewhere, that they would be different. He saw emotions that were real, not there in the desire to seem pleasant to another.

She was showing him what she truly felt, not just glimmers of it, and it made him smile.

Leaning forward very slowly, almost cautiously, he took in her expression. She looked afraid - but not of him. There were tears in her eyes, tears born out of frustration rather than sadness. When they fell – if they fell - he thought for a moment that he would like to be the one to wipe them away. Brushing the backs of his fingers across the soft plane of her cheek, he saw that her eyes lowered, looking to his lips. He smiled slightly, moving his hand to her hair.

As his lips met hers for the first time, his fingers slipped through the locks of gold. The delicate curls were just as soft as he had always imagined. He ran his fingers through her curls as, very softly, her lips moved slightly to return his kiss.

He felt her hand move to sit lightly upon his shoulder. Her lips were soft, just like her hair, just like her hands, just like the colour of her cheeks when she blushed, and sweet, just as she was. He smiled uncontrollably against her lips.

When he drew away, his hand still in her hair, her eyes were closed. Her eyes remained closed as she pressed her lips together. He wanted her to say something – anything, but she didn’t. She remained quiet. It made his palms sweat. His hand fell from her hair and to his side.

When her eyes finally opened, they were very wide. There was a frown on her face that he wanted to smooth away with the pad of his thumb. Her hand was still sat upon his shoulder. She looked to it for a moment before she drew her hand back, pressing her fingers to her lips.

“I’m sorry,” He said, feeling the sudden need to apologise. Myrcella looked up at him, her eyebrows lifting. “I shouldn’t have surprised you like that.”

“No… no, please don’t apologise.” She murmured very quietly, distractedly. “I’m sorry, my lord, I’m just confused.”

“When I told you that I didn’t want you to leave, I meant it. I fear I might miss you and that’s – that's -  _surprising_. I don't mean to sound... I just - I never thought that I would come to care, but I do. I do, for you...”

Myrcella looked as though she might say something. Her eyes flickered back to meet his gaze, her hand lowering from her lips to reveal a ghost of a smile. He had thought himself harsh, his meanings ill phrased, but it seemed that, for her, they sufficed.

“We should go to supper.” She said with a smile.

 

 

\--

 

 

The next day, he watched the carriages roll away.

But he watched them roll away with her by his side.

With a smile, he looked down at her. She was staring ahead, her chin raised slightly as she watched the empty carriages that should have taken her and several others away to the South, to her home. He wondered what her mother might say, whether she would be angry at her. She had sent a raven to tell them of her wish to stay but there had been no response. Taking in her expression, he frowned.

Perhaps she was wondering when she would next be going home to the South. Perhaps she was regretting her decision to stay after all.

But – glancing up at him, she smiled.

Smoothing her hands down the sides of her green dress, she brushed out creases and tutted quietly at the hint of dirt. For some reason, it made him smile. The only other person he had ever seen do such things was Sansa. He wondered very briefly why it was that they had never become friends and why Myrcella preferred to keep Bran and Rickon for company. 

“Would you like to come for a ride with me? Then, perhaps after, I can show you the Godswood.”

“Yes. I would like that very much.” She replied, that pretty smile of hers returning to her lips. It made him feel those stirrings once more, leaving a strange tingling in the tips of his fingers and jitters at the pit of his stomach. It was all so very... strange. But in a good way.

Whilst Myrcella disappeared inside to change her dress, he fetched the horses. He had them bring out the dapple grey mare – which had been intended for Sansa, only, as of late, she chose never to ride outside of the confines of the castle – for Myrcella. Something told him that she would approve of his choice.

And she did.

When she returned, he was granted another chance to see that smile again.

“I can’t say I shall be much good.” Myrcella admitted in a low voice as they rode out of the gates. He smiled to himself. As much as Bran and Rickon had grown fond of her, they still spoke of how she slowed them down, how she wouldn’t know to right end of a horse from the wrong.

“I don’t mind.” And he didn’t. She could take all day fussing with the reigns and her skirts and he wouldn’t mind. It was enough just to have a moment alone with her. She was different when she didn’t feel the eyes of others’ on her. She seemed more herself in private.

Riding took much longer than necessary, but as he had sworn, he did not mind.

It was amusing, watching her. He didn’t understand how his brothers could complain as he sat upon his steed, watching her, with a smile never once fading from his face. They did not ride far, they were barely out of sight of the castle when the rains threatened to come and they had to turn back. Myrcella didn’t seem to mind. She seemed almost relieved when he yelled that it was a better time than any to turn back to visit the Godswood. She was quicker then, the threat of rain spurring her on more, making her fuss less with the reins and with the placement of her dress.

Myrcella flushed when, taking her by the waist, he helped her to the ground. He released her instantly, fearing some sort of reaction which would have her disappearing behind her 'my lords' and her strange inbrown sense of proprietary. But, to his surprise, Myrcella didn’t say a word. She simply smiled before she looked away, her hand rising to stroke the horse’s cheek with the backs of her fingers.

“I do love horses. If only I were any good at riding them.” She said with a little laugh. Her hand dropped from the horse’s cheek, lowering to clutch the dangling reins. He became aware then of how close they were and he stepped away, bowing his head slightly. She was a princess, after all; she had to be treated with respect, regardless of how tiresome titles and manners were to him. “The last time I came here without Bran and Rickon dragging me to and fro was when I was when I ran here with Tommen…”

She paused then, her eyes dropping.

She did not appear to like speaking of her brother, the only one she seemed to love. He found it strange, but he would never speak of it.

“This way.” Jutting out his chin, he gestured for them to proceed forward.

It was a better part of the wood, he thought. It was not so dark, not as silent as some parts. Here there would be birds to hear. Here there was light creeping through the gaps in the leaves, the soft rays reaching the forest floor. It was a better way of reaching the heart tree, a kinder way to show a princess.

“It seems different than I remember.” Myrcella murmured as they stepped beneath the safety of the trees. He shivered slightly. It had been many moons since he had entered, since he had last visited the tree. He felt as though the leaves themselves were punishing him for that with the sudden chill in the air. But the chill had her step closer to him, which in itself, could be no punishment. “Darker, almost. As though, when I was young, I did not notice the shadows.”

“Are you now old, princess Myrcella?” He japed, but his laughter fell on deaf ears. The fair haired princess turned to him quite suddenly, studying him earnestly. Her lips twisted to the side of her mouth and he soon found himself watching them, studying them as she was studying him. He recalled those little lips, remembered the feel of them against his, even if the moment had been brief, a fleeting moment of sweetness which was soon gone.

“In spirit, perhaps. Though, I do not feel as much a child as I did once not so long ago nor do I seem to look it. It is as though childhood left me quite suddenly, without offering me a chance to say farewell.” He had to tell himself that she was still so very young despite her words. In her heart she may have been a woman grown, but in truth, before his eyes, one-and-four was still so young. “But, I am ready, I feel, to be wed. I do not wish to keep you waiting. There are whispers-”

“Whispers are not meant for the ears of a lady.” He interjected, even though he had heard such whispers himself. Soon he would be one-and-seven. There were whispers amongst the walls of Winterfell that it was considered strange for him not to be wed. But she was so young. It would not have been right to marry any sooner. “Whispers are nothing to think of.”

“So you have heard them too, my lord?”

“Robb. Please call me Robb.” Titles made his skin itch. He was not a lord, not yet. His father was Lord Stark. Robb would not be until he was dead, and that was not a day he wished to come. He would simply be Robb Stark for as long as he could, up until the day when he was Robb Stark no more. When that was gone, he would be a lord. But not until that day came.

Myrcella grew silent, reserved.

Her fingers played with a lock of her hair absently. She looked back over her shoulder, to where, through the trees, the horses were tied. He watched her expression closely, wondering hopelessly whether she was longing to leave him and this place, and received nothing. That royal mask of hers was back in place, hiding away the emotions she surely was feeling.

Looking ahead, he smiled slightly at the sight of the heart tree, not so far from them. It had been some time since he had seen it, but there it still stood, its leaves still red, littering the forest floor like rubies or, perhaps, like drops of blood. He never knew which.

They would be married there, before the tree. He would drape his cloak over her shoulders and they would be wed. She would be his lady and one day, he would be her lord.

Feeling something brush against his wrist, Robb’s eyes lowered from where his gaze was fixed at the tree, to his hand. There he saw Myrcella’s fingers lightly graze across the backs of his. He turned his hand quickly – perhaps too quickly – and her movements paused, her intentions stalled.

“Did you mean what you said? Do you care – truly?” He had been turning his hand to capture hers when she had spoken. It was his turn to pause, to be hindered. He looked at her for a moment, meeting those frightened eyes. Once more, she seemed afraid – but not of him, it seemed.

He longed to ask her what it was she feared, but he had no words, not for her then, not yet. “Because if you did – if you truly meant what you said, then I would not object, I would be made your wife here, in front of this… this tree, and I would not long for some other life that is out of my reach.”

He took a moment, dwelling on the words which seemed to hang in the air. He looked down at their hands, shifting once more so that their fingers were entwined. Myrcella looked down at them too, her eyes guarded, her expression once more controlled. The fear was gone from her face, but it was still there, caught between them in the morning air.

He did not love her, but he knew now that someday he could. Whereas once he had looked at the girl and resented her for the arrangement of their fathers, he now saw her as what she was – a girl, with a heart which was of sweetness and such warmth, which the chill of the North seemed to rob from its people, leaving them cold and grave.

“I always mean what I say.” Was all he said. He felt it was enough.

And it was.

Smiling very softly, Myrcella raised their joint hands and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. He took it as her own way of saying thank you, of saying – perhaps – that she might even feel the same way in return.

It was a fool’s hope, it was all he had.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set forward a little in time from the last one, moving forward to Myrcella and Robb's wedding - which, on the timeline of all things, is three months before the events of the first book/the first season of Game of Thrones begins.

**\-  Myrcella  -**

 

She had let the noise, the camaraderie and the wine get to her head.

She laughed amongst the people of Winterfell, forgetting all too quickly what was to come. She was stripped of the colours of her father’s house and from her shoulders hung cloak of her husband’s – and now her – house. The crowned stag was gone, a direwolf in its place.

She was a Stark now. She was a princess no longer.

She had been content in the knowledge that the man whose hands she clasped and whose lips said the vows before the heart tree cared for her. She had seen something in his eyes which had told her to believe his words in the godswood.

He may not love her and he might never come to love her as she would wish him to, but a part of him cared, and that was – as she told herself – all it was that she needed. As long as he cared, she would never become her mother.

And somehow, amongst it all, she had allowed herself to forget what came after all the words were said and the food was eaten.

She had let it slip her mind what she had always feared, what her mother had always told her would strip away the last of her innocence, leaving her raw and open to the horrors of the world. She had listened to her mother, she always had, and it was her words which had feared pumping through her veins as she slowly came to realise what was coming for her.

Her eyes sought out her husband, who sat beside her, laughing gaily as though he too had forgotten. Or perhaps, he had not, perhaps he laughed because for him, it would not be so much of a punishment, but a prize.

She looked down at her wine. She stared at the goblet, eyes fixed on the red liquid which it contained, remembering the way which it had made her father’s face grow from sombre to jubilant. She picked it up and drained the liquid which left a sour taste in her mouth, wondering whether it would have the same effect on her or if it would simply loosen her tongue as it had done with her mother.

Beneath the table, she felt Robb’s hand touched hers. Her fingers twitched and restlessly picked at her dress and for a moment, his touch soothed her. But then, after only such a brief moment, his touch was gone. She looked to him, watching him as he spoke to another, never casting her so much as a glance.

She longed for the kind words of Lady Catelyn, but she could not see her, her eyes not finding the woman until it was too late. They came before she had even had a chance to prepare herself and long before she was able to tell herself that she had made the right choice.

The whispers had frightened her. She had heard the unkind words which were said about her and her family in the past but she had thought nothing of them because she had been safe. She had been a princess, safe in a castle. But in the North, where she was still a stranger, she was not safe, was not secure.

She had feared what would have come of her if Robb had broken their contract and married someone more pleasing - someone more fit to play the role of his wife. How could she have faced the return home knowing she had displeased her father? But worse of all, how could she let herself singlehandedly provedher mother so right about the people she had come to care for?

Myrcella had known hastening their marriage was the only way – for all her lessons, it had been to be the Lannister way or no way at all. She played a game of her own. She had fortified her place and because of it her future was secure, as her mother would wish for it to be.

Looking up, she saw, with widening eyes, that the men came quickly.

She was almost scooped up from her place, the empty goblet slipping from her fingers. Robb looked up then, the smile fading from his features.

Someone, from what felt like very far away, called that it was time for bedding.

Myrcella squeezed her eyes closed when she was carted off, afraid of what was to come. She felt her hands shake as rough arms went around her, moving her from the feast and down to the chambers which awaited her.

She heard their words, but at the same time, she did not hear. She did not allow herself take in their sneers or their unkind slurs. She blocked it out, just as she blocked out the sight of it all by closing her eyes. She trained herself not to think of it, as she had always done when faced with difficult things. She thought of happier times instead, of sun kissed afternoons in the gardens with Tommen and her uncle’s smile and her mother’s hands braiding her hair. She went to a kinder place.

Yet, as much as she tried to steel herself to their actions and as hard as she concentrated on the sound of Tommen’s laughter when he played with his kittens, she couldn’t stop herself from feeling her dress as it was ripped from her.

The delicate buttons of her dress were torn from behind her. She felt further ripping and with a small gasp which was inaudible amongst the laughter and the raised voices, the dress pushed from her shoulders.

She stared at it as it fell to the floor in a heap, the pretty material wasted and ruined. She felt herself sniff, tears coming as she saw that Robb’s cloak had been removed too and that it lay beside the dress, as though the two things could not go together, as though to tell her that though she may be his lady, she would always be something other than a Stark.

“Do not let them see you cry. It only encourages them more.” Kind words were whispered into her ear by a knight whose name escaped her. His expression was grave and his face bore a scar, but his face was kind as he – with averted eyes – was the one to rip away what was left of her small clothes, leaving her bare. He pushed aside the others, taking her to the chambers with her thrown over his shoulder. She heard the others behind the closed doors when she was put down upon the bed. Immersed with furs, she covered herself quickly.

She looked up at him, hoping to find some way to express her gratitude before Robb entered the room, but she found that she had no words and that he had gone, leaving her alone in the large, candle-lit room.

Blinking away her foolish tears, Myrcella’s knees raised to her bare chest.

She had never felt so bare, so exposed. She felt as though there were no need for the actual bedding, for all the innocence of childhood had gone the moment strange hands had grabbed at her and torn her wedding gown from her shaking form. Any trace of that innocence had been gone before she had entered the chambers. Gone, with no hope of ever being returned to her.

She longed for her mother, inexplicably, in that moment. Squeezing her eyes closed, she tried to think of what her mother would say to her if she were there beside her. Her mother would not have let her weep, she would have found the right words to make her strong. Her mother, for all she was and all she was not, had always told her things which no one else had, which no one else quite dared. She would have told her not to be afraid. She would have told her what she had to do.

Myrcella felt herself stiffen at the sound of laughter. Robb would be coming and he would expect something from her, his _wife_ , which seemed behind her reach.

She had once heard her mother say that a woman had two weapons – tears were one, and the other was what lay between a woman’s legs. Myrcella hadn’t understood then and she still did not, not even as Robb stumbled into the room, pushing away the hands which had stripped him of all but his small clothes.

She sunk down deeper into the mount of furs, hiding her face behind her long hair and her knees.

What weapon could she possibly have?

She was so afraid. She wasn’t sure if she had ever been as afraid as she was in that moment. And even if there was a weapon to be had, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to use it or if it would be any use to her.

She could not even bare to look at him, her husband. Her eyes were squeezed closed, searching through her bank of memories for something which would take away her fear and replace it with something else… something which might make her even smile...

“Myrcella?”

She didn’t look up at the sound of his footsteps. She kept her eyes closed, her knees hugged close to her bare chest. Her thoughts were escaping her, her happier place slipping like grains of sand through the gaps between her fingers. Soon, all she would be left with was what was occurring before her closed eyelids, what was truly there, rather than what she wished was there.

She felt the bed shift slightly as Robb sat down near her.

“Are you alright?” He asked her after a moment of hesitation. His tone was very soft; it was a small comfort, something which made her almost want to open her eyes, but it was not enough to ease the trepidation inside of her. She felt his fingers, gentle and always so very cautious, at her temple, brushing her long hair back and then behind her ear. She felt him loosen the flowers from the top of her head, removing the only crown she would surely ever wear. “I’m sorry they did that to you. I should have stopped them - I should have said something, I'm sorry.”

“I know.” She said very quietly against her knees. "There was nothing you could have done."

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” His hand had dipped, moved so that he was touching her cheek. His thumb brushed lightly down her cheekbone, making her lips twitch slightly in a small sort of smile. “I would never force you; you do know that, don’t you?”

She opened her eyes very slowly, raising her head off of her knees.

He was her husband. It was his right to take her maidenhead – yet, there he was, telling her things which she knew that he really should not. He was giving her hope; hope that she should not have allowed herself to feel. She had been afraid of this night for as long as she had known of its existence and now suddenly, when she looked into his eyes, she wasn’t so afraid.

But yet, he was her lord and it was still his right to take her maidenhead. She was not quite sure what would happen if she did not let him have it.

“I’m afraid.”

She had always been taught that she was a princess and to be a princess who was both a Lannister and a Baratheon, there was only one way for her to be and to behave. She was to be composed, charming (but never _too_ charming), gracious towards those who were equal to her and always – _always –_ she had been forced to believe that it was necessary that she hide her true self, with all its darkened areas and weaknesses, away from sight and away from the eyes of others.

Her mother would have been ashamed of her for admitting her fears. Honesty was not a luxury of a princess.

But… looking at Robb, feeling his hand upon her face, she realised that she wasn’t a princess any more, was she? She belonged to the North now.

“There is no need to be afraid.” Robb drew her to him then, somehow managing to draw her to his chest with both need and care in his movements. She felt his kiss press atop her head. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

After hugging her to him for a moment, Robb drew away. He shifted, moving back onto the bed. He lay down beside her on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his arms thrown behind his head.

“They ruined my dress.”

Robb looked at her for a moment, his expression somehow both grave and amused. He seemed unsure what to say. She watched as a pucker formed between his brows when he looked away, his eyes returning to the ceiling as though it held all the answers. She looked for herself, her eyes fleetingly flickering upwards to follow his gaze. She stared at the wood and the stone and what had been there for so long and would be there long after she was gone.

“I’m sorry. That dress looked beautiful on you.”

The dress _had_ been beautiful. Her mother had sent it for her.

Her mother had sent it without a note, with nothing to say that she was sorry for not being there to let her child go – because she wasn’t. Her mother would go to her grave despising her father for letting the North take her. The dress had told her that. It had been gold, gold which should have spoken of the Baratheons, but spoke to her more for the Lannisters. The dress was gold, Lannister gold, and it had been marred by a cloak of the North before it had been stripped from her. There was a sort of poetic irony to it all which Myrcella did not allow herself to dwell on for long. She had no time for poetry. Not anymore.

She wasn't Myrcella Baratheon anymore. She wasn't a princess, just the daughter of a king. She knew she had to put the girl she had once been behind her, and yet, Robb was offering her a choice. Or at least, he liked to think he was offering her a choice. But any choice she had had vanished the day her father decided that they should be wed. This was her life now. There was no point in turning to run from it. It was the life she had been forced into, and she would have to find a way to make it her own. Her eyes returned to Robb's face, watching him for a moment before she spoke.

“Do you not want me? Is that why you will not take what is yours?”

Again, Robb looked to her with a grave expression upon his face. It was in that expression that he seemed most like his father. For a moment, Myrcella wondered if there were ever a moment when she resembled hers, or if she was destined to remain an image of her mother, something of Cersei which would stubbornly remain long after she had passed from the world.

Robb sat up, his expression solemn.

“No… Not like this.” Robb reached out to touch her face, to gently run the tips of his fingers down her cheek. She closed her eyes at his touch, unable to look at the sadness in his eyes for long. She felt within her heart an ache, telling her in her mother’s voice that she was a disappointment. She was not the wife he had wished for, after all. Soon, he would not care. Soon, he would long for another in her place. “I don’t know what they have taught you – but all I want is for you to be happy, Myrcella. I want you, but I can wait.  No matter how long it takes, I will wait until the day comes when you want me for reasons other than out of some… some form of duty.”

He seemed to mean it. He truly did.

It was strange. She found it difficult to understand him - her _husband_.

She recalled the years of waiting for him to simply look at her, the years of longing to know him, and the terrible fear which had existed inside of her when she saw how little he cared, and it made her strangely sad.

Now that she had him, now that she had a shred of love from her husband, she was not sure what she was to do with it. No one had ever told her what to do. No one ever spoke of how to keep a man’s love without it all sounding like some sort of game.

But Myrcella did not want to play a game.

She did not want there to be a winner and a loser in this game, the game which was their marriage. She just wanted what she felt everyone should want – joy. That was all she had ever truly wanted from the world.

She wanted to wake up when her beauty was gone and her children had children and know that she had been happy.

Shifting, she moved closer to her husband. Opening her eyes, she found him near, nearer than she had expected. She lifted her hand to his face, mirroring his previous actions. As she moved nearer still, his pensive gaze fixed on her lips as she bit down upon them. He seemed to be holding back, staying true to his words. He was a Stark, after all. They held their honour above all.

“I do not want you to have to wait, my lord.”

His lips seemed to be waiting for her lips.

Her fingers moved to his hair, tightening in the locks of both auburn and brown. He was a perfect mix. Both a Stark and a Tully.

“Robb. Call me Robb.” He breathed against her lips, pulling away a fraction of a second before their mouths could meet.

“Robb -” His kiss was quick, one of both sweetness and a burning need. She felt it in the way that her lips stung and in the softness of his fingers ghosting down the curve of her shoulder.

“Say it again.” He urged. She smiled against his lips.

His name upon her lips seemed like a sweetness, something which she would not keep from him. She murmured his name as he peppered kisses across her jaw and down her neck. She whispered his name as he very slowly, with their eyes meeting for a moment, laid her back. He seemed to ask her something, a question of some kind lingering in his eyes. She reached up, brushing away the lines of his frown with the pad of her thumb. She smiled very faintly and nodded her head, hoping that was enough of an answer for him.

Robb pressed sweet kisses to her collarbone, to her shoulder, to her breasts... He moved away the furs she had clutched to her person, leaving her bared, entirely naked before him.

She blushed, feeling exposed in a way which was different than the way she had been exposed been before. Whereas with the men in the hall, she had been afraid and humiliated by what their greedy eyes would see, she found herself almost welcoming Robb’s gaze.

It was that which she was almost ashamed of; that she found pleasure in the way that he looked at her, seeing her in a manner which no one else would.

“You are so beautiful.” He breathed. He touched her cheek for a moment, pausing in his actions to simply look at her. It made her smile.

She felt her nerves slowly melting away as she found herself not worried whether she had to find the words to thank him for his compliment, but unsure as to what she could do which would suffice. She raised herself up onto her elbows, meeting his lips in a kiss which left her breathless once more. He grinned back at her, the mirth in his eyes telling her that that was enough, words were not needed.

His hands ran up her thighs, fingers wrapping around her hips, moving her closer to him. She lay almost nearly beneath him now, still smothered by the furs she lay amongst. She felt the softness of the furs against her bare form, tickling her, making her giggle quietly against her hand.

She found herself less afraid – but nervous, as he pressed kisses to the bumps of her ribs and to her stomach. Her hands twisted in his hair, urging him back up to her lips. Her mouth opened, his tongue slipping in, dancing with her own.

She thought, for a moment, she felt him smile against her lips.

Taking this as a sign, she took a breath.

Her trembling fingers slipped loose from his hair and ran down his back, stopping at his small clothes. She felt for the strings, feeling for what would pull them loose from him. However, as she pushed at the material impatiently, his hand caught her wrist, drawing it back to his chest.

Opening her eyes, she looked, in confusion to her husband. Robb’s eyes had opened too; he frowned down at her and shook his head.

“It can wait.” He said. But she felt him, she felt _him_ pressing against her.

“I don’t want to wait.” She breathed– and it wasn’t a lie. Not truly. She was anxious and she was unsure of what she was to do and to feel, but it wasn’t a lie. There was a warm sensation spreading through her, one which built and built with each kiss and touch, and she didn't want it to stop. She didn't want it to go away. She didn't want to have to wait to feel it again.

And at the same time, she didn’t want to wait and to let him move off of her without giving him some sort of... pleasure. She heard her mother’s words echoing in her ears and she wished she didn’t. She didn’t want to lose him – she  _couldn’t_ lose him. Regardless of what he said and what he believed, if she did not give him this, she might as well give him up to the nearest whore there was within the walls of Winterfell.

She didn’t want to share him. He was her husband, no one else’s.

“Myrcella –”

“I don’t want to wait, Robb.” Robb’s eyes closed and he groaned openly in a mixture of frustration and – what she hoped, at least - pleasure.

His name upon her lips seemed to be some sort of magic word.

She told herself not to forget that.

Robb’s fingers loosened from her wrist, his hand moving to her hair. She closed her eyes, the feeling of his fingers running through her hair bringing her a different sort of pleasure than his lips did. Whereas her servants had always tugged at her hair, pulling hard at the knotted strands, Robb was gentle. He was always so gentle with her. It was as though she were made from porcelain, as though she might break at any moment.

She moved her hands again, slipping down the smooth plane of his back to push his loose white shirt up and over his shoulders. He grinned as he raised his arms, letting her push the shirt over his head. She tossed it away, out of sight.

He was handsome, her husband. Handsome – and strong, like knights and heroes from her songs. She saw him differently than she once had. She had watched him from afar for years, admiring the distant man who was to be hers.

She had seen the Tully and the Stark in him and she had always been fascinated by it. But now – now he was Robb. He was just her Robb. And he was far more handsome and noble than any knight or hero from a song or a story.

She ran her hands down his bare chest, fingers running through the hair she found there.

Robb would be good to her, he would not be like the husbands Joffrey had always said she would have. He would not beat her before his men as some sort of joke to prove his worth as a man. He might never beat her at all. Should she never have to hear the sound of a man’s hand upon a woman’s cheek again, she would surely die a happy woman.

When the time came for what she had always feared, she had expected so much more than what she received. She had expected pain, pain beyond measure. She had been a princess. She had never known pain. Not like others did. Not even when Joffrey had pinched her until her skin bled had she known true pain. The blood, the bruises and the little marks he left behind were nothing compared with the strife of others. But when the moment came where her innocence was trying lost, taken, supposedly robbed from her, she did not feel the terrible pain as she should have. The sweetness of her husband’s kisses and the softness in his eyes kept her from it.

She had heard so much of what would come on the wedding night, she had been told all manners of things about the pain and the discomfort and the failings of men. But no one had ever told her that she would enjoy it. She was left entirely unprepared, and surprised by the soft sounds which escaped her lips.

She bit down on her lower lip and turned her head away to press it into her shoulder. But Robb, running a finger down her lips, shook his head.

“Don’t do that.” He murmured, gently pressing light kisses to her shoulder. “Don’t hide from me. I want to hear you. I want to see you…”

Her eyes rose, a blush rising atop her cheekbones. He was looking at her strangely, as she had never seen anyone look her at before. And it was strange because she had a feeling that she was looking back at him in the exact same way.

 

 

  
**-**   **Robb** -

 

“Eventually, one day, we must leave this room.”

Eyes closed against the morning – or perhaps afternoon – sun which _insisted_ on streaming through the gaps in the curtains, he would deny his wife this one thing. If he had his way, they would be there always, never straying from their places, her hand never leaving his chest.

“Never.”

He felt Myrcella’s head shift from his shoulder, the comforting presence of her gone from his person for a moment. The fingers which had been locked loosely in her golden hair fell away, his hand falling to his side.

Reluctantly, he opened one eye, blinking sleepily against the sudden brightness of the room. It had been easier in the dark, easier to forget that there was a world outside of their chambers.

He might have sighed if his eyes had not fallen quickly upon Myrcella and seen, once more, the loveliness which could surely rival the brightness of the sun. He smiled to himself, still not quite sure how he had not seen her beauty as clearly as he did that day.

How was it that he ignored her for so long, preventing himself from looking upon such a sight? It seemed impossible for him to ever look away from her face, away from the loveliness he would never allow himself to be without. Not for a single day, if he had his way.

Her small chin sat upon his stomach, her lovely green eyes lowered, watching her fingers as they ran in circles upon his chest.

Reaching out, he carefully brushed away the hair which had fallen across her face back behind her ear. She looked up then, at his touch, and she smiled. Her smile was warming, it always was. He wondered if her smile would keep him so warm when winter came, when the grounds froze and the snow fell for years and years. If he should have her in a room to himself, wrapped in furs and sheets, it would be enough to last any winter.

If White Walkers knocked up their door, he would laugh and tell them to go, to come back after the next summer came and died.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“I believe it is the afternoon.” She chimed softly, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Did you sleep well, husband?”

_Husband_.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he almost groaned. His wife would be so spoiled. If she laced his name to any word she said and called him what he still could not believe he was, there would be nothing in the world which would not be hers.

If she asked, he would ride out and snatch the crown from her father’s fat head all to see her smile and hear her call his name.

“Sleep?” He laughed, eyes still closed as he wrapped an arm around his wife. “I do not believe either of us had a moments rest.”

Myrcella laughed very quietly, his eyes opening in the hope of seeing the smile which he had so quickly come to love. She remained as she had before, lying with her chin atop his chest, her smile in place as though she had been waiting for him to see it.

It was easy to forget, when she laughed and when she looked at him like that, the way he had felt the night before. His heart had felt as though it had been torn from his chest when he had seen her unhappiness as she sat beside him at the feast, smiling only ever when she thought he or someone of consequence was looking. It had been worse still when she had been torn from his side, dragged off by drunken guests hoping for nothing more than to see a bit of flesh before they passed out from all the Strongwine. He had known Jory would help her, known that the man would do something to stop the others from harming or frightening her. He had trusted in him and yet, from the moment he stepped into their bedding chambers, he had seen fear raw and painful to his own in her eyes, rivalling surely the eyes of a man dying upon a battlefield.

It had been like a dagger to his heart seeing that there, knowing it was more likely than not something which he had caused - something which he could have stopped if he remembered himself and remembered that in spite of all which others said about her, she was still a girl, still so young beneath the body of a woman grown.

Her beauty had been more intoxicating than wine, making him forget himself with her. He still felt the little pinpricks of guilt.

He should have waited.

He still thought, even as she lay in his arms smiling, that he should have waited for her to be entirely ready for him, both body and soul. He remembered the way she had tried to conceal the gasp of pain when he had slowly – but not slowly enough -  pushed into her. She had turned her face away, trying to hide away her pain. That was what had torn through him the most – what still tore at him – that even then she would not show him her true self, not even to let him know that what he was doing was hurting her...

He had not done it again.

In spite of everything, it had been – different. Different from what he had found with whores, paid for by the glint of coin peeking out of a purse. Different from the lips of girls he had long forgotten.

But he had not let himself do it again, would not allow himself to cause her pain for a second time regardless of how it had felt for him. So he had dipped between her thighs, hoping that was enough. Leaving her breathless, clutching at his hair, murmuring sweet words into his ear when he rose for air, it seemed that it had been. He was lucky in that, lucky in that he had a way to give her such things without bringing her pain.

“Before someone comes along and ruins this moment, I just want you to know something.” She said, lifting her chin from his chest. He opened his eyes, looking down at her as he sat up slightly. He was tired, his head heavy as he lifted it from a pillow. “I may not have had a choice in who I married, but if I could have chosen, I would choose you. Always.”

Her words affected him more than he ever would have expected. His heart seemed to swell. He sat up at once, leaning against the backboard, and moved to bring Myrcella up with him. But she smiled, shaking her head. She pressed a finger to his lips when he opened his mouth to speak, that small smile never once slipping from her lips. “You are my husband. I would ask one thing of you before we rise and leave this room.”

“Anything.” And he would. For her, he knew he would do anything she asked. It was strange to think of another having such power of him, but looking into her green eyes, he found that he did not mind – he welcomed it, even.

“Make love to me again.”

He closed his eyes.

How could he deny her this one thing and nothing else?

Did she not know what she was asking of him?

He did not know if he could bear to see her face crumple again, even if her maidenhead was gone, taken from her.

“Don’t make me ask twice, Robb.”

And in the end, in spite of all of his conflictions, she wouldn’t have to.

 

 

\-   **Myrcella** -

 

Three months passed, quickly, sweetly, gone in the blink of an eye.

Myrcella did not sense the chill in the air the day the deserter was killed. She had not sensed the impending change.

She had awoken that morning in her husband’s arms, happy, as she had been for three whole moons, ignorant to the whispers in the wind which she might have heard if she only knew how to listen.

She had been stood overlooking the yard with Ned and Catelyn, watching Bran practicing with his bow beside his brothers when Arya had shot the arrow right into the centre of the target. She had laughed, as the others all had when Bran bounded after his sister, and blushed when Robb looked up to where she stood and winked. His grin had been just for her, and it had made her cheeks burn.

But then the moment was lost.

Myrcella was still smiling down at Robb when Ser Rodrik Cassel informed her goodfather of what surely set the chain of events in motion, cracking the fragile grasp she had on the happiness she had thought would last her and Robb until the day they died.

“…captured a deserter from the Night’s Watch.” Myrcella turned, looking away from Robb’s smirking face to Theon and Ser Rodrik. She frowned, tugging a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. She caught Theon’s gaze and she raised her eyebrows in the hope of an answer. The Stark's ward shook his head slightly before he looked away.

“Ned, _ten_ is too young to see such things!” Lady Catelyn beseeched her husbamd, her eyes wide with worry. Myrcella looked back, looking down at the courtyard, where Bran still chased his sister. Robb was gone by then, gone from her sight. She was glad of that. She did not want him to see her worry without being able to explain why.

“He won’t be a boy forever, and winter is coming.” The words always chilled her, for reasons she did not know. Ned moved away, following Ser Rodrik and Theon, and Myrcella moved close, touching Catelyn’s hand for a moment.

“Is everything alright?” She asked very softly, but Catelyn said nothing. Robb’s mother turned, looking down at the courtyard. She seemed to be looking for Bran and instead, for a moment, her eyes met Jon’s instead.

_Poor Jon._

Myrcella was older now, old enough to know what a bastard was. Her lips pressed together in sympathy for him, for the bastard boy who had always been so kind to her.

She did not see the man’s death, did not see the fear in his eyes when he spoke of White Walkers and things she did not understand, but she saw it in Robb’s eyes when he returned to her. She saw it first, before her eyes dropped, seeing what was not furs in his arms, but a pup.

But in his arms, there was neither a dog nor a wolf. But a little direwolf.

One for every Stark, even the Snow.

“We found a dead stag on the path and a direwolf, dead, with an antler in its neck.” Myrcella looked up at that, unexpected and unexplained shivers running down her arms. She felt a strange sort of chill raising the hairs at the back of her neck. She was bundled in furs and coats; she had no reason to feel the cold…

And when the raven came, Myrcella did not fear the contents. Why would she? She was foolish enough to let herself be happy. She was sat with Robb, running her fingers through the grey fur of his little direwolf, quietly giggling as he pressed idle kisses to her neck. She did not even notice Catelyn and Ned enter the room, both their faces more solemn than she had ever seen them.

“The King and Queen are riding north, to Winterfell.” Ned said, addressing the room. Robb’s lips paused at her neck, her own hands growing still upon the little direwolf’s back. It was difficult to imagine her family there, in Winterfell, in her home, bringing with them all which she had allowed herself to forget in her all too brief months of happiness.

Within a fortnight, she would be with her parents, with her uncles, with her brothers. The thought of seeing Tommen again made a smile cross her lips, before the thought of Joffrey robbed her of it.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now, this chapter basically opens with the arrival of King Robert and co. and sets the wheel with the canon events and such. I've tried to blend both actual scenes from the show and the book to, as I have said before, show how it could have been if Myrcella were married to Robb before all what happened in the series transpired and how her presence would change that. Thank you so much, also, for all the lovely reviews, I appreciate them so much!

 

She would never forget the day when her family arrived.

Never, not even if she lived longer than Old Nan.

For others, it was the King who was arriving, the king who was to be respected and obeyed, but to her, it was her father. It was the father who she loved, and who came with all the mess she had thought she had left behind her in King’s Landing. She didn’t see it as exciting or as something to be celebrated.

She saw it as what it was - something to dread.

She woke that day with her head aching so harshly that she was sure her skull had developed a heartbeat of its own, and with a desire so strong to remain in bed that she had almost convinced Robb not to get up when he was called.

She had watched him dress with small, pouting lips which were only turned into a smile when he rolled his eyes and with a façade of reluctance, helped her dress. She never liked to be dressed by a servant, not when she had Robb there to roll her stockings up her leg with a kiss there and a caress there and Robb to do up the strings of her dress, kissing the back of her neck as he did so.

She had dressed in a deep maroon, knowing someone in her family would surely appreciate it, with her long hair tied back in a series of black and gold ribbons which she hoped, in a small way, mimicked the styles she had last seen in King’s Landing. Robb had smirked at the sight of her when she stood, said she looked silly, and though she had agreed, she had said nothing and feigned irritation.

She had swatted him over the shoulder as they went down for breakfast and made him laugh so loudly that the walls had echoed his booming laughter around them as they descended the stairs into the main hall.

She had never seen the castle look as clean as she had that morning. Full of candles and flowers, it was as though there was a wedding feast about to occur rather than simply the arrival of her father and mother.

It seemed a waste, all that hard work for nothing. Her father had no eye for anything remotely aesthetic and her mother would look down on it all because, simply, it was _Northern._

“The King is near!”

Myrcella dropped Robb’s hand.

They were going to miss breakfast after all, it seemed.

Robb turned, looking at her with a questioning expression she did not have an answer for. She stared ahead instead, looking to the gates where her father and all his men would soon ride through.

She pressed a hand to her lips, feeling ill at the thought of having to sit and pretend that she was happy to see them, pretending that she was not aware of the eyes scrutinizing her every move, pretending not to notice the way her father whored so openly with other women… She had forgotten how to pretend in her time with Robb in Winterfell. She had forgotten what it was to lie and to pretend that all was well when the world was crumbling down around you…

“It’ll be fine.” Robb said, smiling at her. He took her hand again, his fingers tightly wrapping around hers. She noticed then what she had not noticed before - they had cut his hair, shaved his beard and dressed him smartly. She frowned slightly to herself as they moved from the hall and out into the open air of the courtyard. She would miss the prickle of his beard against her cheek and the unruliness of his hair amidst her fingers.

She would never forget the helmet which Arya wore on her head as she ran – late - to the procession, causing them all, save perhaps Lord and Lady Stark, to laugh quietly, in spite of themselves and what was to come. It had been a brief moment of lightness, something which made the pounding of her headache and the sickness in the pit of her stomach dull down for a moment.

But only for a moment.

Looking away from Robb’s youngest sister, she had – _of course_ – raised her eyes just in time to see her brother as he emerged from the gates and rode into the courtyard.

His eyes were not locked on her, as she had dreaded, but on Sansa – which was all the more worse. Her older brother looked at the girl like she was something he could claim, as though Robb's sweet sister was some prize he was about to possess.

It made that feeling of sickness return, causing her to press her lips together tightly, fearing what could come out of them. Her eldest brother would have no qualms in taking her head if she happened to be sick at the very sight of him.

With a hand pressed to her lips, in a show of what she hoped was emotion, she fought the waves of nausea by taking a breath. She looked to Robb, hoping for some small comfort, but he was staring ahead, eyes fixed on her seemingly princely brother.

It had been with a sort of dread that she had looked upon her brother again, riding beside one of the Clegane beasts she had always been afraid of. They called him the Hound, and she had always wondered why.

From beside her, she saw that Sansa smiled at him, smiling; at who she seemed to think was her gallant prince. It had almost been enough for her to see Robb’s expression from the corner of her eye – but, then Joffrey’s eyes met hers and she felt the ghost of a smile fade from her lips.

It had only been for a moment, the moment broken by her father’s entrance, but it was enough to make her hand drop, knowing there would be nothing she could do if sickness came.

She had forgotten the way her brother made her feel, a terrible mixture of fear and loathing. It was strange to think about how much she had once loved him. She had loved him almost as much as she loved Tommen. But he had repaid her love with his little games, games which had left her body littered with little scars and awful memories which she wished she could forget.

Robb’s hand clutched hers tightly as all in the courtyard sunk down in a bow. She followed them after a beat, remembering that she was less a princess now than she had been before. She was a lady of the North, not a princess, and she had to bow to kings, even if they happened to be her father.

A small part of her had hoped that when her father strode over she would be the first he greeted. She had been stupid to let herself hope, knowing even before her father had arrived that she would be disappointed. Her father had always been very good at disappointing her.

Her father moved to Ned and she watched him through her lashes. He seemed much older than he had been before; his dark hair greying, his face wrinkled, his belly fat.

“Your grace.” Robb’s father said as they all rose. Robb’s hand still held hers, tight and secure. She wanted to look at him, to somehow thank him for being there, but she couldn’t. She was frozen with her eyes on her father’s face.

He hadn’t even spared her a glance.

His eyes were all for Ned, his oldest friend.

“You got fat.”

There was laughter, then an embrace.

She released a small sigh of relief. Her father was not so much changed after all.

“Cat!”

Her father hugged Catelyn, ruffled little Rickon’s hair before – finally – he seemed to move down to greet her, his only daughter.

But no, once more she was disappointed. Her father spoke of old times whilst, behind them, her mother emerged from the carriage, with Tommen following close behind her. Nothing in this world could have stopped her smile. Myrcella felt herself spring forwards, only to be drawn back by Robb’s hand. He was too far from her to be embraced, to be held. She wanted to feast her eyes on his face but he was too far away, his face hidden by her father as he moved away from Catelyn, down the line to stand in front of Robb.

“You must be Robb.” Her father greeted Robb as though he had forgotten, as though he did not know the man who he had given his daughter to. “Aye, you’re a pretty one.” Sansa smiled sweetly. Her father moved from Sansa onto Arya as though she were invisible. Robb’s fingers were impossibly tight around hers, it hurt, but she would have it no other way. She needed to know that he, at least, could see her, even if her father could not. “And your name is?”

“Arya.” Her father nodded, moving down to Bran.

“Show us your muscles.” Her father laughed. It was strange – Myrcella had always missed his laugh. Now she was not so sure. “You’ll be a soldier.”

Just like another Brandon Stark he had known? Killed before the Mad King as he watched his father burn alive? She wanted to ask. She wanted to see him wince. She wanted to hurl something at her father’s face, to strip him of that stupid smile. She wanted to do something other than _stand there_ watching him, trying her best to ignore the prickles of tears, pretending as though they were not there.

“Did you really think I’d forgotten you, girl?” Her father roared, laughing once more as he turned to her. His laughter was not cruel, but it felt it. It felt as though she were stabbed by little knives by the booming sound of his ever-so condescending laughter. But when he turned to her with a smile which appeared to be so genuine, she felt the sting less sharp than she had before, becoming nothing more than a dull pain which she easily ignored. “Come here; let your father have a good look at you.”

She should not have smiled as quickly as she had, so painfully grateful to at last have a shred of her father’s recognition. She tore her hand out of Robb’s, stepping out from the procession to greet her father.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling as broadly as she did.

Her father took her by the shoulders very tightly, his multiple chins shaking as he laughed. He hugged her quickly, tightly, and left a smell of wine in the air he exhaled that was so familiar she felt as though she were but a girl of ten again.

He stepped aside before she had even the chance to return his embrace, another aspect from her childhood she remembered so well.

She told herself not to be disappointed as she stepped back into the line; her hand slipping back into Robb’s the moment her father moved away.

Avoiding Robb’s eye, she looked past her father and saw her uncle.

She smiled instantly at the sight of him.

Removing his helmet, she watched him grin as he shook out his gold hair, a true lion if there ever was one. He dismounted his horse with all the grace of any knight or hero from any song. She was relieved to see that he had not changed. He was still the same uncle who she had always loved almost as much as she loved her little brother. When she had been young and so desperate for a love she found so limiting in the hearts of her mother and her father, her uncle had had time for her when no other had.

She thought she saw him look to her – seeing her, unlike her mother and her father and her brother before he saw anyone else. Their eyes met across the courtyard and he smiled. He at least seemed glad to see her.

Her mother had not yet even spared her a glance.

“My queen.”

Her mother smiled at that.

But it was not real, Myrcella knew that well enough. Her mother’s true smiles were rare, as hers would have been if she had stayed in King’s landing long enough. Watching, with her beaming smile slipping from her lips, she waited for her mother to at last notice her. Eventually, her mother’s eyes slid down the line to hers, pointedly ignoring Robb’s polite - albeit muttered - welcome.

“Myrcella, darling.” Her mother touched her cheek very lightly; her smile more honest than it had been with the Starks. For a moment, her eyes were almost hungry as they took in her face for changes. “How lovely you look.” Her mother, smiling somewhat reservedly, drew her into her arms, ignoring Robb entirely.

Her mother had not changed and it was not so much a comfort, but a reassurance. She liked to know that the world would not spin out of control when her attention was diverted and her eyes were not looking.

The smell of her mother’s beautiful golden hair was so painfully familiar. It was something she did not know she had missed.

“Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects.”

Her mother drew away. Myrcella felt herself grimace as she looked from her father to her mother. The smile was long gone from her mother’s lips. Her eyes were cold as she looked to her husband, willing him in silent words he would never understand against the idea. Her father did not know what subtle was, he never had.

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”

Disregarding her mother wholly, he moved off and Robb’s father soon followed him. Ned seemed somewhat apologetic when he looked at her mother. Myrcella had to admire him for that. And for a moment, as she looked away from her father’s retreating form and to her mother, Myrcella felt a twinge of sympathy for her. She knew the wound which the long late Lyanna Stark still was.

“Mother –”

“Where’s the Imp?” She was cut off by Arya’s whispers, whispers which made her wince. Her mother’s green eyes, which were cold and hard, went from her to Arya before she stalked away, moving to her uncle Jaime's side.

Her uncle Jaime looked at her briefly as her mother hissed about the whereabouts of her other uncle – though, it would not be difficult to find him, it never was – and she let herself smile. She had thought she had only missed Tommen, that there was only so much room in her heart, but she was wrong.

She had missed her uncles too – both of them.

Moving forwards, she was free to move as she pleased without her father there.

She soon forgot of her silent promise to Robb that they would stick together, staying by each other’s side through the farce, as she looked upon her sweet brother’s face.

With her mother’s back turned and her father in the crypts beneath the castle, she could run across the dirt all she wanted.

She bounded forward, forgetting her manners and how to be the lady her mother had had her raised. She hurried blindly across the courtyard until she was within range of her little brother, unaware of anything but him. She heard Tommen exclaim her name before they collided, all tangled limbs, in a desperate, urgent embrace.

Her brother had grown in her absence. One day, she mused, he would be taller than her, tall like their uncle and just as handsome. She smiled, thinking of how the girls would fawn of him and never be good enough, as she pressed kisses to his forehead and his cheeks and to the top of his golden hair.

“I missed you! Oh, I’ve missed you so, so much.” She cried as he squirmed, trying to escape her grasp. She heard him giggle; his laughter sweet and unchanged after all their time apart. It felt as though she had not seen him in a lifetime. There were no words to speak of the ache that was his absence.

When Robb asked of him, of what she said in her letters, she could not say. Being parted from her brother was like living with a piece of her missing. She could live on without it, but life lost some of its sweetness and its joy.

“’Cella, I can’t breathe!” He exclaimed, but he was smiling – smiling so brightly she almost wept – when he drew away.

She could have looked at her brother for a lifetime; examining his round face for any change, for any nicks or bruises – for anything. She could have spent a thousand years looking at him and it still wouldn’t have been enough.

But her time was cut short, as it always was, but off by the sound of her name from behind her.

Cold and said in a sort of sneer, she felt herself cringe as her name passed through Joffrey’s lips. It would not be long, she knew, before he took Sansa, drawing her into the web which was King’s landing. She could only hope that he would treat his lady wife with more care than he had ever treated his own blood.

Turning, she saw that her mother had gone. Her uncle was left stood with Joffrey, stood by the horses which the servants hurried to house. She avoided Joffrey’s eye as she approached him and her uncle. Tommen held her hand tightly, clutching it and her arm as he hung close.

She would have had it no other way.

The idea of being parted from him, after only having him returned to her for such a small amount of time, was too painful for her to bear. 

“You look almost grey, sister. It must be this weather.” Joffrey’s snipes had not changed. She pushed a smile onto her face and stepped away from Tommen for a moment, allowing herself to be embraced by her eldest brother.

She cringed slightly at the feel of herself in Joffrey’s arms. She had not thought she would ever find herself in that position again. But the embrace was soon over and she did not have to endure Joffrey’s presence for long.

After being embraced tightly by her uncle and having kisses pressed to her cheeks, she returned to her and Robb’s shared chambers to prepare for the feast.

That night she wore Baratheon gold.

 

\--

 

Try as she might, she did not endure the feast for long.

Throughout the night, she had smiled politely for her mother, laughed for her brothers and her uncles and been apart from Robb so that she could sit amongst the lions rather than the wolves. She had averted her eyes as her father drank amongst wenches and had held her tongue when her mother’s scrutinizing eyes had taken in her appearance and made a quiet jape of the style she had spent so long turning her long hair into. 

She had done everything her family had asked of her and more, fighting to be the daughter and the sister and the niece they seemed to need her to be. It took so little for her to lapse back into the person she had once been, the girl who had held her tongue and done what was expected of her and nothing more. 

She forgot the Myrcella who had blossomed in Winterfell and she had, for the night, found herself returning to being their little doll, the girl who was nothing more than a puppet and a pawn.

But the moment Robb left the room; she knew she could last no longer.

In the fuss which Sansa had created over what Arya had done and all the laughter that filled the large hall because of it, it had not been difficult to excuse herself. She had pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek and bid her goodnight whilst she told the rest she was simply going to find her husband to see if he was well (which, from the way that Theon smirked, seemed to have made her sound as though she were trying to bed him).

She found Robb easily. She simply followed the sound of his laughter.

He was with Arya, laughing together beneath the darkened sky with their direwolf pups faithfully lingering by their sides.

She paused, watching them fondly for a moment. Robb's youngest sister was kicking the wall, her skinny arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. Arya had never seemed very fond of her in return, but Myrcella had always had a soft spot for her. Arya was all the things her mother and her septas had drilled out of her from a young age. Arya had a freedom which Myrcella had never had, and the girl said what she felt and she was never afraid of that. Myrcella envied her that.

Robb looked up at her over Arya’s head, and grinned widely at the sight of her. He put his hand on his little sister’s shoulder and said something which made her laugh.

Myrcella watched, still smiling, as Robb said goodbye to his youngest sister. He kissed her quickly atop her head, laughing quietly as she swatted him away. His smile was amused as he watched her, muttering as she went, stalk across the courtyard to the part of the castle where her chambers lay. Her little wolf followed closely behind her, a grey shadow which disappeared into the shadows along with the young Stark girl.

Robb came to her swiftly, hands lifting to touch both sides of her face. He seemed so suddenly concerned; making her wonder if the stress of the day was showing. She sighed at his touch, her eyes falling closed for a moment.

“Are you alright?”

She opened her eyes.

“I don't think I could have lasted a moment longer at that feast." She finally felt as though she could breathe. The pounding of in her temples lessened when she stepped into his hands. Here, in Robb's arms, she felt lighter, like a weight had been taken off of her shoulders.

"You look pale, are you feeling alright?" Robb drew back, his hands touching her face once more.

"I don't feel that well." She admitted. "But I’m sure that it’s nothing, I’ll be fine.” She smiled for Robb, smiling prettily on command as she had always been taught to. But Robb didn’t seem convinced. He shook his head as he brushed his thumb across the curve of her lower lip.

“I’ll have Maester Luwin see you at once.”

Robb was like his father in that. She supposed she had to admire him for that, even if it did leave her slightly dumbfounded. Once he made a decision, it was simple – it would be done. Nodding to himself, Robb took her by the hand, leaving no time for protests or refusals, and led her up the steps and to their chamber without having to go back into the hall and disrupt the feast.

Behind them, Robb’s direwolf followed, hanging back just enough not to be noticed as Robb led them into the castle.

“What have they done to your hair?” Robb said, amused, as he held the door of their chambers open for her to pass through. “It’s even worse than it was this morning.” She flushed, lifting her hand to her hair.

She had grown so comfortable with the simple Northern styles – which really, were so simple that it was nothing at all – that the complicated styles of her home made little sense to her any more.

“ _I_ did this. Do you not like it?” She laughed as, with her hand in her hair still, she sunk down onto their bed. Robb grinned over his shoulder at her as he whispered to a servant or someone in the passing that the maester was needed. Once they were gone, disappearing wordlessly down the hall, he crossed the room and threw himself down heavily on the bed beside her.

“Is there some kind of animal living in there?” He asked, chuckling to himself as he ran his hands up her arms. She closed her eyes at his touch, feeling his gentle hands draw the tight pins from her long hair, letting the ringlets fall loose into freedom.

Robb’s short nails scraped against her scalp as he ran his fingers from the roots of her hair to the very tips, leaving her smiling faintly, her head falling back onto his lap. He brushed out the braids that had sat at the top of her head and the knots which the silly style had caused and she hummed quietly in appreciation.

"Much better." He said, and she grinned, her eyes opening to look up at him. “It was nice to see you look so happy with your brother.”

Her smile faltered a little. His words were meant, she presumed, as a kindness, but instead sent a pang of pain through her. She was happy with Robb in Winterfell, happier than she had ever imagined herself being, but a small part of her was always aware of something missing. She was sure that there existed a Tommen shaped hole in her heart. She wasn't sure if she could bare it when Tommen returned to King's landing.

“Oh?”

Robb opened his mouth to speak, but there was a knock at the door, silencing him. Myrcella lifted her head off of Robb’s lap, surprised. They both exchanged a somewhat bewildered expression before, with his hand brushing through her hair still, Robb called for them to enter.

“Yes, come in.”

Maester Luwin entered their chambers, panting slightly, as though he had hurried. Myrcella felt a stab of guilt pierce through her. He was an old man, despite his japes. She sat up, Robb’s hand falling away.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Maester.”

“I would ask that my lord be excused, just for the time being.” He spoke to Robb as though she had not spoken at all. She felt Robb’s hand ghost across the small of her back as he shifted, with great reluctance, off of the bed.

Their eyes met as he moved around the bed and paused at the Maester’s side. She nodded her head as though to tell him that it would all be fine and his lips twitched slightly before he turned away and left the room.

“I don’t understand, why did you wish to speak to me privately?”

“I thought, perhaps, this was a more - perhaps - private matter, my lady.”

Myrcella’s lips twisted.

His expression worried her. He was looking at her as though she were plagued by some disease. It made her think how ill she had been feeling lately and how she had hid it from Robb to save him the worry. She had thought nothing of it until that moment. “Speak freely, my lady.”

She should have said that she would never have minded speaking of any matter with Robb present, but she didn’t. Instead, with a sigh, she spoke of her headaches and the sudden sickness seemed to be only getting worse.

She spoke of how she supposed it was stress induced by the Hand’s death, who she had not known well but always considered to be a kindly man, and her father’s visit and the Maester nodded as though he agreed in some parts and pursed his lips in others. But in the end, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all. And, although with some hesitation when he took in her bewildered expression, the Maester sat down beside her on the edge of the bed.

“I believe you are, my lady, with child. I have had my suspicions for some time. Ever since I witnessed you turn green at the sight of the trout.”

That had been weeks ago. She barely remembered the incident. She had blamed it on the wine. And though she wanted to laugh, to say the maester was mistaken, she felt the realisation slowly dawn on her. She hadn't had her moon's blood since before she had married Robb. 

“With – with -?” There were no words. She was dumbfounded, to say the very least. “No, surely not?”

For a fleeting instant, his hand touched hers. The brief touch was comforting. She told herself that the touch told her what words could not. That all would be well. She opened her mouth to speak, but she paused for too long.

And then he was on his feet.

She watched him go with round eyes. He moved away from her, to the door.

She looked down to where he had patted her hand, hoping he had somehow given her all the answers. Her fingers twitched, hands trembling as she lifted them upon her lap.

“In the morn, I will prepare a special sort of tea which your grace can take to help relieve the sickness.”

And then he was gone, leaving her alone.

She sat very still, frozen, a part of her feeling afraid - but of what, she was not sure. In her hands, she held her dress, holding it tightly so that her nails would not dig into her palms. Her nails would leave marks which Robb would notice.

When the door of the chambers eventually opened, Robb stepped through.

He must have been told, had to have been told.

He seemed almost as stunned as she was.

She wanted him to sit down beside her and not say a word as she let loose all her fears and her terrors. There was so much to say, too many thoughts to think. What if she was like her grandmother? What if it went wrong and the birth of her child took the life from her? Or - what if the child was well in body, but not in spirit? She thought of Joffrey and how horrible he had always been – what if their child was born like her brother, a rotten seed she could never love? What would she do then?

But Robb, sweet Robb, sunk down onto his knees before her and wrapped his arms around her. He pressed a kiss to where their child would grow, to where her stomach would swell and her hands released their tight grip on her dress to run through his hair.

“It’s so soon.” She murmured, fingers running themselves through his hair habitually. “What if I’m not –?”

“Everything will be alright.” Robb quietly said as he rose to his feet. His hands slipped from her waist briefly. He moved onto the bed, slowly shifting back so that he was behind her. He swept her long hair off of her back and over her shoulder. Her head rolled forwards, eyes falling closed as his nimble fingers unlaced the tight fastening of her dress. She finally felt as though she could breathe when, helping her to her feet, Robb pushed the dress off of her shoulders and let it crumple to the floor. She stepped out of it and into his arms. “Gods, this isn’t something to fear. This is… wonderful.”

She felt safer there, in Robb’s arms. She felt as though his words were true. If he said so, it was wonderful… everything was wonderful…

 

\--

 

 

“Is Bran going to die?”

She did not remember her last words to the Stark boy who had always been so kind to her and that was what hurt her the most.

When she had not had Robb, she had had Bran and Rickon.

They had tried to teach her how to ride and they had let her play with their bows and their practice swords. They had always played together and laughed with her when she winced at the sound of wood meeting wood, always treating her as though she were not some silly little girl playing a knight she could never be.

The thought plagued her; the awareness that she would never know if she had been kind to her dear, sweet friend, or if she had been distracted, her thoughts occupied by the child which was surely somewhere inside her, growing to be the son Robb wanted, the sweetling she prayed would never be what she feared.

Poor Arya had been the one to tell her.

Cheeks damp with tears, she had stumbled past her, running across the courtyard sightlessly. She had half run into her, not once seeing her stood there, admiring the cloudless day as though all was well in the world.

Robb’s sister’s words had been rushed, incoherent, and as she had told her the words she had not been able to comprehend, she had looked for someone, another Stark, who might be more of a comfort to her than she was but she found no one. Robb was out hunting, gone for the day with the men, leaving only the women and the children. 

Her blood had felt as though it had gone cold, ice surely freezing her veins, when the words finally clicked and made some sort of sense in her mind. A strange prickling sensation had run down her arms, leaving her numb and frozen. She had pressed a hand to her lips, knowing not what to say or do as she watched the Stark girl flee the open of the courtyard, Nymeria at her heels.

Myrcella had not wept, not yet. Tears would not come until she saw Robb's face that night and seen the truth there in those forget-me-not blues.

She had tossed and turned all throughout the night, tears spilling down her cheeks as she endured what was the beginning of many sleepless nights. One thought haunted her, refused to let her slip into a dreamless sleep away from the horrors of her reality - would they lose Bran and have their child take his name, so to honour him so early, so soon?

He was a child. There would be no honouring him; there would be only a grief which could not be spoken of, one which would never go away…

“Apparently not.” Her uncle Tyrion had always been clever. He was far cleverer than her or her mother or her uncle Jaime. If anyone knew what could come of Bran, it was him.

So in a brief moment of innocence, she smiled.

She smiled in spite of the terror which still lay at the pit of her stomach and the chill which never seemed to leave her.

Perhaps she allowed herself to hope because she did not know the truth of it all. She had not seen the extent of it, had not seen the true damage of the fall because she had not been to see Bran. She had not felt as though it were her place.

She feared what might come of her when she stood at his bedside, waiting for the words to come to say goodbye to him, her friend. She feared letting go of him, but most of all, she did not think she could bear to see Lady Catelyn as she was. She had heard her cries from across the castle, heard the distant screams and the pleas for her son’s life throughout the night. It had made her clutch at Robb tighter, tight enough so that she wouldn’t see the dampness of his cheeks as tears run down them and dripped onto her.

“What do you mean?” Myrcella glanced at her mother, who had seemed so untouched by all of this. She was not like Joffrey, whose selfishness would not allow him to feel an ounce of sympathy for another, but she was still cold, as though she could not let herself feel anything for those who were not of her blood. Myrcella pressed her lips together, remembering her mother’s words.

_Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same._

“The Maester says the boy may live.”

Myrcella did not see the glance which was shared between the Lannister twins. Her eyes were only for Tommen, watching the way he frowned down at his eggs. Twice his legs had swung loose beneath the table, knocking her feet.

He had not said a word, smiling only when Tyrion had arrived. She longed to comfort him, to wrap her arms around him, but she sat on the other side of the table, a gulf between them as she sat in the chair her mother had insisted she occupy. She watched her brother as her mother and uncle quietly argued over Bran’s fate, as though he were some dog who had been injured by stepping on a thorn.

She had not touched her breakfast. She did not see how she could, not when Bran lay between the world of the living and the dead.

Ignoring her untouched plate of food, she yawned quietly behind her hand, smiling only when Tommen did.

She watched him, his sweet face grow free from worry as he giggled and smiled as their uncle Tyrion told him tales of White Walkers and such things which otherwise would have given him nightmares.

When her uncle spoke of his desire to see the Wall, her eyes shifted to him. She had tried not to think of Jon’s plans to leave them, to take the Black and be stuck there until death came for him. She did not think she had room in her heart for the sadness of Jon’s upcoming departure from them all.

Myrcella was old enough to know what a bastard was and what it meant, but she was – or at least she thought she was - clever enough to see the love which those in Winterfell held for the boy, in spite of this. Jon Snow was not a Stark, no, but he was as good as one.

“Children don’t need to hear your filth.” Her mother hissed, but both Myrcella and Tommen smiled, the pair of them both glad, it seemed, of the temporary distraction. Tyrion grinned at her and she lowered her eyes, smiling faintly down at her untouched breakfast. “Come.”

Her mother spoke to them as though they were little pets for her to order and command. Had she always addressed them in such a manner? Myrcella had never noticed it before. It made her frown but still she obeyed, as the good daughter she was and always would be.

Both she and her brother rose at once, following their mother from the small hall which had become the Lannister dining room.

Tommen reached for her hand as they moved through a doorway and she smiled very faintly, snatching his hand – as always - with no intention of letting go. His little, chubby fingers slipped through hers. She gave his hand a squeeze.

He would be leaving soon – too soon – and it was as though that piece of her which his absence was was becoming greater, as though Tommen leaving would take half of her with him, leaving her with only an ounce of love left for all the others.

“Tommen, go find your brother.”

Tommen looked at her, pausing, as he was caught between not wanting to let go of her hand and obeying their mother’s orders.

She felt it too.

She squeezed his hand, savouring the moment while she still had a chance. His eyes were round and his lower lip trembled ever so slightly before, with what felt like a dagger to her heart, he pulled his hand from hers and left the room. Myrcella watched him go; inexplicably crestfallen as she watched the golden hair disappeared from sight, out into the light of the courtyard.

“I cannot believe what has come of your hair.” Her mother muttered, eyes narrowing slightly as they regarded the locks which she had simply allowed to be loose and free about her shoulders. She had had neither effort nor energy to mimic the styles she had long forgotten.

“I have had more important matters on my plate, mother...” She mumbled very quietly. Her mother hated it when she mumbled, but she couldn’t stop herself. She lowered her gaze to the floor, staring at the stone as she thought of Tommen’s trembling lower lip. If she had a son, she could only hope he would be of the same sweet heart as her youngest brother, showing nothing of the elder brother she wished she could forget. She smoothed her hands down the bodice of her dress with a soft sigh. “Mother, I… I am with child.”

It was with great hesitation that she looked back to her mother, who stood watching her with what looked like mild interest.

“So soon?” Her mother’s eyebrows raised a fraction. Myrcella smiled slightly, hoping, for a brief, naïve moment, that this might be a rare moment of bonding between the two. Her mother touched her arm very lightly. “What is in the water in the North? Soon you shall have a pack of your own; perhaps you might get a wolf too.” Her mother’s eyes were cold as they regarded her, but her expression was amused.

The small smile slipped from Myrcella’s lips. 

“Mother –”

“Love only your children.” Her mother’s words stopped her short. She closed her mouth, taking a breath as she remembered the words she had always lived by. She nodded her head, pretending to understand her mother’s words.

When she was a little girl back in King’s landing, her mother had said those words to her one day. She had been so young, she had not understood. She had looked up from her embroidery and giggled.

_‘If I can only love my children, mother, then I could not love you.’_

Her mother had frowned at her, watching her as she giggled at the thought of a world where she did not love her mother –

A world which would never exist.

She thought she heard her mother mention Lady Catelyn before she left, moving through the doorway which Tommen had disappeared through, but Myrcella did not look up to watch her go. She was frozen, stuck in her place, her heart hammering in her ears like the pounding of drums.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, to where it would swell with her child, with Robb's child. Her mother’s words had once meant more to her than the words of any other. She remembered everything her mother told her, every word, every token of advice. But – as her hand slipped from her middle and fell to her side, she felt, like a cold wash of water, her mother’s words leaving her.

She was wrong.

She felt her love for Tommen, steadfast and whole inside of her, and her love for the Starks, which grew like wildfire each and every day.

Her mother was wrong…

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

She was not brave like a wolf nor was she fierce like a lion. She felt like nothing more than a timid fawn amongst wolves. She covered away, watching as others did what she could not. She hid in the shadows, watching braver souls enter the place where her feet would not let her go.

“I’ve come to say goodbye to Bran.”

She squeezed her eyes closed, wishing she did not hear the words which followed. Tears fell before she could even think of trying to stop them, running down her colourless cheeks like drops of rain down the glass of a window.

She was not brave like Robb, who had decided to push through his grief to the other side, to a place of hope. _Bran is not going to die._ He kept saying, as though saying it enough might make it true. She had tried. She truly had tried her hardest to be like him, to have a hope. She had prayed to both the old gods and the new, praying for Bran’s life and his happiness on either side of life. She had tried to give him her prayers by his bedside but she was weak.

She did not know what had become of her.

Each time she had visited the sept, she had left in tears, tears which she kept from prying Lannister eyes and uncertain winter hearts, who still looked as her as though she did not belong.

And each day, she painted a pretty smile on her face for her mother, for her father, for her uncles, for her brothers and kept herself controlled, calling it a sort of grace under pressure, something she knew she had learnt wholeheartedly from her mother.

But as she stood outside of Bran’s room, she lost her control.

She pressed herself against the wall and hid in the shadows from Robb’s father, hoping his eyes did not notice the shape in the darkness or the sound of sobs which were drowned out by the kind-hearted words of his bastard son.

He passed by her without a word, his eyes – mercifully – fixed on the floor.

The door shut and she bit down on her lip, wishing her tears away.

Thrice she had come here, stood in the same place, trying to build the courage to push through the door and enter the room where Bran lay. She tried to picture him there, still and pale amongst the furs, not the sweet, living boy she had known and cared for long before her name had changed from Baratheon to Stark – and she couldn’t. Her mind saved her from the pain of it.

Bran would always be Bran, her dear, sweet friend. She could not picture him as anything more or anything less.

“Myrcella?”

With a small gasp, which was more out of shame than of true surprise, Myrcella raised her head, exposing her damp cheeks to the light.

Jon the bastard stood before her, eternally grave faced, and from the looks of it, his cheeks seemed slightly damp too.

“How is he?” She quietly asked. Her small hands trembled pitifully.

“No better.” Jon said, looking away from her. She saw his jaw tighten before he deftly wiped his own cheeks with the back of his hand. “I have to go –”

“Please,” She did not think twice before she removed herself from the shadows, pushing forward into his path. She raised one hand, pressing it to his chest. Jon’s eyes dropped, frowning down at where her fingers tightened around the soft furs which hung heavily from his shoulders. “Do not leave just yet.”

“What do you want from me?” His words were sharp and they were weary, but they were not aimed at her. She knew better than to think they were.

She raised her hand, her palm slowly running up his chest to his shoulder. Jon’s eyes never strayed from her hand, staring intently at it as though it were some great mystery to them both. She gripped his shoulder, squeezing it in an attempt to be comforting. She had never understood comfort, only surmised that comfort was found in the touch, rather than the action.

“I am sorry that you are leaving.” Her own eyes dropped to her hand as she gingerly lifted it from him, suddenly wary of how close they stood.

The loss of contact seemed to signal a change in Jon. He looked at her, that brief moment of defencelessness lost. His dark brows drew together, the emotions within his eyes unreadable. “I’ll miss you.”

“That is very nice of you to say, my lady, but no, you won’t.” He said, and though it was not said unkindly, the words stung all the same.

His shoulder brushed hers, enough so for her to stumble back against the hard stone wall, as he moved past her. She wiped her damp cheeks before she followed him, methodically moving down the corridor and down the small flight of stairs until she was back outside, into the courtyard.

He was much quicker than she was.

Already, Jon was ahead of her, his back to her, carrying a saddle.

She might’ve called his name had Robb not appeared so suddenly. The curled locks of his dark, damp hair were auburn in the morning light.

She stopped in her place, watching the two brothers from afar. She caught their words on the wind, words which, for some reason, pained her.

“- he’s not going to die, I know it.”

“You Starks are hard to kill.”

As she watched the two young Starks – the heir and the bastard – embrace, she felt them then – more tears; running down her cheeks before she had even the chance to raise a hand to hide them. Passers-by paused for a moment; one man, whose name she did not know, even offered her a stained handkerchief to dab her damp cheeks with.

In that moment, she didn’t mind that there would be dirt on her cheeks, smeared along her cheekbone, still wet from her tears. She smiled as she handed back the handkerchief to the man, wordlessly mouthing her thanks. 

She lifted her small hand in a wave to Robb, her head bowed slightly as he moved towards her, away from his brother. She looked for him, for Jon, over Robb’s shoulder, but she was too late, the bastard boy had gone.

She knew, as she turned on her heel and hurried back into the castle, that she should have waited for Robb to reach her, to be of comfort to him as he had always been to her. But she couldn’t –

She did not think she could bear hearing his words of such hope. To have them, she would have to have Bran, smiling before her on his mount like old times, not lain unconscious in a bed, surely deafened by all the prayers which were whispered for him in septs and amongst the rustling leaves of the godswood.

She thought she heard Robb call her name as she disappeared into the castle.

She hid in there from him, from everyone, so she could be alone with her thoughts and the terrible sadness which was taking hold of her.

There, hiding in the castle, she wept for Bran, for little Tommen who was leaving her, for Lady Catelyn, for herself and Robb. It was too much, she reasoned, for one person to feel. Perhaps that was why her mother called love a poison. Perhaps this feeling was what came of loving too many.

 

 

\--

 

 

The air had changed in Winterfell.

Winter seemed much closer than it had been before; it was as though the departure of Lord Stark and the royal party had taken the last shreds of summer with them.

She grieved as though someone had passed. And in a sense, someone had. Myrcella Baratheon was gone. Dead. Myrcella Stark was what remained and was what was left behind as all the last shreds of former self disappeared south.

Her sweet Tommen went back to the snake’s pit that was King’s landing without her, to a place where it seemed he belonged but she no longer did in the eyes of anyone but her mother. She had tried, in a moment of utter desperation, to ask of her mother to have him sent to Casterly Rock but she would not listen. _Tommen belongs nowhere but with me, as do you._

So much was wrong in the world. She could scarcely make sense of it all.

Sansa left to be Joffrey’s lady love. Robb’s father left to be her father’s hand. Jon left to take the black. And Bran… Bran was very much the same.

His eyes had yet to open.

Everything around them was changing. It made her nervous, as though, for reasons she did not yet know, she had need to be afraid.

Luwin told her she likely had been with child for two moons, almost three. The child could have started on her wedding night, even. There was a slight swelling which she stared at sometimes, which she ran her hands down when she was alone in the bath. Robb hadn’t noticed it yet. She didn’t blame him. He had more to concern himself with than the slight roundness to her abdomen.

“I need to speak to my mother. This can’t go on any longer.” Looking up, she smiled very faintly at the sight of Robb stood in the doorway.

Robb didn’t return her small smile. He was frowning, she noticed. He was always frowning these days. But then again, they all were. There wasn’t all that much to smile about, she supposed.

“Is Rickon -?”

Robb nodded gravely.

_Poor little Rickon._

Robb's youngest brother was still so young. He was just a child, only six. He didn’t understand what had come of his brother - his best friend - or what had taken his father and his sisters away from him.

He didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t. No one knew what to tell him.

There were no words to explain that his brother might never return to him and that his father and sisters were just the same. He needed his mother, but Lady Catelyn wasn’t ready to be his mother. Myrcella did not think there had been a single day where she had not been at Bran’s side.

“I’ll come with you.”

Again, Robb nodded.

Outstretching her hand, she waited for only a beat before he took it.

No words passed between them as they made the walk from their chambers to where Bran was. But she didn’t mind the silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable with Robb. She didn’t feel the need to fill it with unnecessary words or pointless chatter. What could she say anyway? That she was sorry? He knew that already.

It felt somehow colder in the other part of the castle.

There she heard the howling of Bran’s wolf and felt the terrible chill in the air.

She shuddered and as they reached the door, she paused, hanging back. Robb looked to her, his eyebrows slightly raised. She wasn’t sure what she could say to him. Still, after all this time, she could not bring herself to enter the room. She couldn’t see Bran as she feared he was. Broken back and broken legs, he would look like a ghost – and a ghost she could not bear to see him as.

“I’ll wait here. It’s not my place.” She quietly said, ignoring Robb as he opened his mouth to protest. She feared he would have if he had not heard the words coming through the doorway. She glanced to it, seeing that it was ajar. She heard Lady Catelyn’s voice and it made her wince. _Poor Catelyn,_ she thought for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I don’t _care_ about the appointments!”

Robb’s hand slipped out of hers and he stepped into the room.

He didn’t close the door behind him. She heard every word, even though she wished she did not. As she turned and leant against the wall, she sighed. She longed inexplicably for Tommen. The feel of his soft hair between her fingertips would have been a comfort to her. She would have given the world to hear his laugh, something which could have even warmed her even this wintry hour.

With Sansa in King’s landing, Joffrey would have more to do than terrorise his little brother. She was saved from the worry by that knowledge. Tommen wouldn’t suffer as he had for so long. Tommen would be fine without her… Tommen would be fine…

She leant against the wall, fingertips drumming listlessly against her lower lip, listening reluctantly to the words which past between those in the room she could not bring herself to enter.

It was rude to eavesdrop, but she had little choice.

Luwin left the room not long after Robb had entered and she smiled at him. He nodded his head, his expression grave, and moved on down the poorly lit hallway. She watched him go, her green eyes wistful.

“He’s not going to die, mother.”

Again, she sighed. He kept saying that. She wished he wouldn't. He grew even more determined each time he said those words.

Every night as he crawled beneath the sheets and the furs, she would have to hear those words and pretend that she agreed. But as she heard his words of such hope, she heard her mother’s. Her mother had made her realise that even if Bran woke, his life would be forever marred, forever changed. Would he ever walk again? Poor Bran, poor sweet Bran, who wanted to walk across the Wall with his bastard brother and be a knight in the Kingsguard. All that was gone from him.

“And what if Maester Luwin is wrong? What if Bran needs me and I’m not here?” Glancing to the door, Myrcella’s lips pursed. She felt as though her heart were being torn from her chest. The Starks’ agony was her agony, on top of her own. And she longed for nothing more than to clutch Robb’s mother’s hand and tell her that everything would be right in the world, because, after all, she was still the woman who had always been so kind to her. She deserved some comfort, even if what Myrcella could offer was only small.

“ _Rickon_ needs you.” Robb burst out. His tone was sharp.

Myrcella winced slightly.

Timing and tact were not her husband's strong suits. Robb said what he thought and did not seem to understand anything remotely close to tactfulness. She usually loved that about him. But all the same, she could not deny that though the words were harsh, they were true. Poor little Rickon was barely ever from Robb’s side.

The poor little boy clutched to his leg and often cried. He kept asking for Bran and there was nothing they could do but deny him that. She’d tried to help, she had, but there was nothing to be done. She would simply have to resign herself to stand there, useless, as Robb tried to detach the littlest Stark from his leg. “Mother, _I_ need you too. I’m trying but I can’t… I can’t do it all by myself.”

She continued to listen even though she wished she did not. She kept herself pressed with her back to the cold wall until she heard, cutting through the solemn sound of Bran’s wolf howling, Robb yell.

_Fire!_

“Help me,” She heard Lady Catelyn exclaim, “help me with Bran.”

She turned then, pressing a hand to the door which Robb had left ajar. She pushed it open at once, stepping into the room just as Robb hurried out of it. They collided messily and she stumbled backwards into the doorframe.

“Mother, stay here! I’ll come back as soon as the fire’s out.” He yelled over his shoulder as he reached out to take her hand. His fingers wrapped around hers tightly and dragged her from the room before she could really even enter it. She saw a flash of red which was Lady Catelyn’s hair and that was all. She did not see Bran. She was almost glad of it, she thought, as she ran down the stairs.

The library tower was on fire, a blaze which filled the darkening sky with smoke. She came to a stumbling stop, staring at it with wide eyes. Robb turned to her, his other hand pressing against her cheek for a moment. “Stay here!” He yelled over the sound of barking dogs and raised voices, “Keep Greywind with you!”

She nodded mutely, her eyes burning from the smoke in the air.

Before he ran, Robb pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her fingers ached when he released them from his grasp. She watched him hurry towards the tower for a moment before she turned to look for Greywind.

She saw what Robb had seen - the wolf was a shape in the shadows one minute, then bounding forward in a blur the next, moving quickly, as though to follow Robb into the chaos. She quickly hurried towards, knowing not else what to do, stepping so that she was in the wolf’s path.

Robb’s wolf stopped at once.

She had not expected that.

Those animated eyes seemed to stare into hers with a question. And after a moment of hesitation, Myrcella did the only thing she felt she could do. She dropped into a crouch and wrapped her arms around the wolf which was getting so big. The wolf’s grey fur was soft, as soft as the furs she and Robb slept upon.

“Stay here.” She said, closing her eyes. “With me.”

The wolf did as she had asked. He did not move.

Her heart was racing, faster, she thought, than it ever had done before. In all the confusion and the panic, she had forgotten of the child she carried within her. She had been told to be careful, to rest, to keep her thoughts calm –

Something wet ran up her cheek. She opened her eyes to see Robb’s wolf lick her cheek. She smiled slightly, but her smile did not last long.

Amongst the yells of ‘fire’, there were screams in the yard and it all seemed to come together until, human and animal, the voices told her one thing – _danger_.

Greywind seemed to sense it all too. The wolf had kept its eyes where Robb would be. The wolf was untouched by the screams and the smoke in the air, but then suddenly, something changed within him.

The direwolf's ears perked up at a sound which broke through all the noise – a sound she did not hear, not even when she strained her ears  - and he moved so suddenly that she fell back into the dirt.

She heard her dress tear as she clumsily scrambled onto her feet, managing to regain her balance just as a scream broke out, rising above all the rest.

After the first scream, not much later, there was another, one which was far different. The first had been a woman’s scream; the one which followed… the one which followed was a different sound all together.

“Myrcella!” 

Tearing her eyes off of the castle, from where she was certain the screams originated, she saw Robb running towards her alongside Ser Rodrik and over a dozen guards. Only Robb stopped at her side, the others ran on, moving into the castle with their swords raised. His hands were sooty as they gripped her face tightly.

“Are you alright?” He yelled over the noise. There was ash in his hair and the front of his shirt was damp from sweat. “Myrcella, are you alright?” He repeated, his tone louder still and full of worry that did not need to be there. She nodded her head hurriedly, but he spoke before she could even open her mouth to ask after him how he was in return. “Go to our chambers, you’ll be safe there. I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

“No!” She exclaimed, frantically gripping his arm as he tried to move away from her. “I’m coming with you!”

“ _Please,_ Myrcella. Go where I know you will be safe, it is all I ask of you!” He cried as he tore his arm away from her. He left her before she could stop him. She watched him run into the castle with his sword in his hand and thought she heard his voice yelling above all the others.

She stood there for a moment, in a sort of daze. She lifted her head, and she found herself staring up at Bran’s window, wondering if he knew – if a part of him heard what went on around him.

There had been a man, when she was younger, who fell ill. She did not remember the man’s name, only that he had been on her father’s council. Everyone had noted his absence and mourned him quietly after he died. Her mother had told her not to pay attention to it, but when the time came and he fell into a sleep, there was nothing for her to think of but that.

Maester Pycelle had brushed past her on the way to seeing the man. Pycelle had nodded his head at her in his usual distracted sort of way and had not said a word when she had followed. She had stared at the man, lying still in his bed, only the rise and fall of his chest telling them all he was not yet dead. She had never seen a man die, and never did she want to.

_“They say a man knows the words which are spoken to him, even if he is not quite there to hear them.”_ Pycelle had said as she stared down at the man. She had bent close, her long hair swinging down upon his cheek. She did not remember what she had said to him, what graces a little princess a bestowed a dying man. All she remembered was that she had sworn she had seen one of his fingers twitch before she moved away.

A child’s hope, perhaps.

Myrcella gathered herself before she stalked away, sighing very quietly at the memory. Smoothing down her hair, she left the yard and moved into the castle where her and Robb’s shared chambers were.

Closing the door behind her quietly, she entered the room. It was eerily quiet there, untouched by all else. She moved across the room and sunk down onto the bed, the bottoms of her skirts ripped and soiled by mud.

She waited for Robb for a long time, her fingers listlessly running through her hair, freeing it off knots, in the search of something to help pass the time.  She was tired by the time he returned, slouching slightly, her eyelids growing somewhat heavy. Robb entered the room as quietly as she had, his expression weary, his large hands sweeping through his hair.

She sat up as he entered the room, though she waited for him to speak first.

“Someone…” He said, sounding so very unlike himself as he sat down next to her. His head fell to his hands. “Someone tried to kill my mother. Someone… someone tried to kill Bran.”

She was stopped short.

What could she possibly say to that? _I’m sorry, my love_ didn’t seem enough.

“But -” She paused, lifting a hand to his shoulder. She placed it there awkwardly, her insides twisting as she thought of poor Lady Catelyn. Bran was a boy, what kind of person could ever hurt a little boy? Robb sighed at her touch but he did not look at her. His head stayed hung in his hands. “They did not succeed?”

“No.” He answered after a long time. “They did not. The assassin is dead.”

She smiled faintly. “Then all is well?”

Robb, at last, turned to look at her. His expression was incredulous, as though he did not know from where her hopefulness came from. Her hand slid off of his shoulder. She returned it to her person, her little hands clasping together on top of her lap. She was not of the North; she was of the South, a true summer child. Her thoughts were not full of thoughts of winter but with a hopefulness that only seemed to exist in the summer, in the hearts of those who liked to pretend that it would never end, that winter would never come.

“No.” He said, frowning. His tone was sharp, angry almost. She blinked, shrinking away from him slightly. She had never seen her husband angry. Not like this. And never before had it been directed at her. “Someone tried to kill him. We need to find out who ordered the murder of my _little brother_ and we need to make whoever it is pay for that.”

She stood, ringing her hands.

“I'm tired.” She quietly said, looking to the floor as she turned her back to him. “Let us sleep.”

Robb said nothing more. Once she had removed her sullied dress and crawled into bed, he still sat where he had been before. His head had returned to his hands. But he said nothing more and neither did she.

 

 

\--

 

 

How quickly things changed.

One moment, everything was golden and in an instant, it was all gone.

Her happiness had been turned to ash. It was as though the Gods themselves were laughing at her, punishing her for being so foolish as to believe it was truly that easy to get your heart’s desire.

Something had happened whilst her back had been turned, while she had been distracted… And it was something which caused whispers to ride on the air, stinging her like the prick of a thorn.

She felt it in little things, in little looks or glances which made her hands start to shake. She thought she saw Theon looking at her sometimes, his expression bordering on unkind. Robb, too, was somehow different. He talked alone with Theon and Ser Rodrik and would not tell her of what he spoke. And before Lady Catelyn had left, swiftly departing for King’s landing by sea, Myrcella had tried to say goodbye to her. She had stood outside of her room and called her name, but there had been no response. She had heard movement in the room so Myrcella had hung back, hiding herself in the shadows, and seen that only minutes later Robb’s mother had emerged from the room.

She had left without saying goodbye. That was what stung most of all.

But yet, whenever she told Robb of her worries, he would say it was nothing and speak of something else. He would ask her questions, questions which were like traps that she fell into time and time again. It was as though he were trying to distract her… and for all her suspicious, he kept succeeding.

The dominant Lannister part of her made her paranoid; it made her worry and made her think of all the little games she could play to get the truth from those who felt the need to hide it. But Myrcella didn’t want to play games. She didn’t know _how_ to play the games anymore. In her happiness, she had let herself forget.

With sadness lurking in the corners of her heart, she knew she would have to try her hardest to remember how to play.

She watched Robb go from afar with her lips twisting ruefully. She knew, as she watched him, that there was only way for her to find out the truth. She followed him, knowing not what else she could do.

She followed quietly behind him as he ventured, alone, into the godswood. She shivered as she stepped beneath the cover of the trees, her long hair damp from the light rain.

From within the woods, she heard the sound of someone whistling. She recognised it at once. _Theon_ , she thought, as she blinked against the slight rain which managed to pass in-between the tops of the trees.

“…took you long enough.” She heard Theon saying.

“What do you want, Theon?” She heard Robb snap back. His tone was the familiar mixture of weary and annoyed she was becoming accustomed to. “Myrcella is –”

“Myrcella is what?” She heard Theon hiss, his tone causing her to blink in surprise. She had never heard anyone say her name so hatefully. Not even Joffrey had ever said her name in such a fashion. She was used to sneers and scolding, not venom. It hurt her in a way she had not expected. Distracted, she did not hear what he said next, catching only what Robb hissed back at him.

“Don’t start that again! I told you, she has nothing to do with it.”

She was treading too heavy, she realised too late. A twig snapped underfoot and she had to drop into a crouch behind a bush to save herself from being seen. In that moment, as she ducked her head and prayed that she would not be discovered, she was glad of the darkness of the godswood and of all the places where a person could go unseen.

“She’s a Lannister and Lannisters were what did that to Bran.”

A little gasp escaped her as it all seemed to make some sort of sick sense to her. It clicked into place much too fast for her to bear.

_That_ was why Lady Catelyn had refused to see her? That was why Robb often avoided meeting her gaze?

Who else knew? Who else suspected that she had tried to kill a ten year old boy and his grieving mother? Who else had she mistaken for a friend?

Myrcella rose to her feet in surprise and was driven by a small sort of madness that was rising out of her, as she came out from the darkness of her hiding place. The twigs of low hanging branches cut across her cheeks and arms.

“You think I would hurt Bran?” She cried as she made herself known. They both looked at her in surprise. It was almost enough for her to see their shock. But it did not give her satisfaction for long. Theon was the first to recover, his expression shifting swiftly from surprise to steely. Robb simply gaped at her, trying for words and failing. She could not bear to look at him for long. “How could you possibly even _think_ that? I love Bran! You know that as well as I do!”

Staring at both Robb and Theon with wide, furious eyes, her hands almost shook with all the emotion which was stirring up inside of her. She was so _angry._ She had never been very angry before, never like this. She knew what it was to be annoyed, as she was eternally at her brother and a greater majority of her family, and she knew what it was to feel betrayed. But not anger, not truly.

“Myrcella, no! I never –” Robb began, only to be cut off by Theon, who stepped forward with a terrible coldness stirring within his eyes. For a moment, she asked herself what the words were of House Greyjoy.

_We do not sow_.

She told herself not to forget that.

“The Lannisters killed that old man. The Hand. And the Lannisters tried to kill Bran.” Theon said, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other pointed at her. She did not like the look in his eyes. It scared her more than she would ever allow herself to admit. “All fingers point to your family, so why not you?”

She shook her head. _No_ , she thought, _that couldn’t possibly be right_.

Everyone had loved Jon Arryn.

He had been beloved by her father. No one would have wanted that man dead, not her family, not anyone.

“He died of illness! My father told me!” She exclaimed, forcing herself to look at Theon. She told herself it was easier to see the hate in his eyes than the pained look in Robb’s. “Why would my family want to kill a little boy?”

“You tell us.”

“My father _loves_ Lord Stark, why would he send someone to kill his wife and son?” She exclaimed, refusing, still, to look at Robb. Her movements were frantic, jerky, as she tried to understand. But she didn’t – _couldn’t_ – find a way to understand. She felt a little jolt of pain at her side but ignored it. "It makes no sense!" Fleetingly, she thought of her mother’s odd reaction to the news of Bran’s health and Joffrey’s indifference to it all, but that meant nothing. Lions did not care for wolves; she had known that all along.

“Not your father. Your mother. Your uncles. _Lannisters_.” He spat her mother’s house’s name as though it were a foul word meant to insult her.

“This is – this is – oh.” As she made to speak of their madness, a strange sort of pain sliced through her. It came quickly, surprising her. Her eyes dropped, watching her hands as they moved on their own accord. Her hands seemed to know from whence it came even if her mind did not.

She felt a slight wetness run down the insides of her thighs, as though her moon's blood had caught her by surprise, and her hands gripped the small swelling of her belly before she even knew what it was she was trying to prevent.

Her eyes rose. She did not look at Theon this time. She looked to Robb instead. His eyes were very wide, his brows tightly drawn. She opened her mouth to say something, to say _anything_ , but no words came. She felt that same slice of pain and her hands slipped away, useless. Her face crumpled just moments before she did.

She was dimly aware, as her eyes looked at the light peeking through the gaps between the trees, of arms catching her. She thought she saw the gleam of auburn on Robb’s hair before her eyes closed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I struggled with this chapter. I really did. And I'm sorry for the delay, I've been under the weather lately and my head's been so foggy that whenever I write, it's just come out appallingly. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. I'll try to get the next chapter up soon, if not, blame it on this cold I've got (though, I think it's more like the flu, or y'know, the Black plague).


	6. Chapter 6

 

For some time, she was dimly aware of what went on around her.

She thought she heard voices from time to time, whispered voices which spoke unknown words and of matters she could not understand, and she was certain she felt the occasional brush of fingertips grazing the backs of her hands.

But her eyes didn’t seem to want to open. It was strange.

She dimly remembered, as she drifted in and out of dreams, that Tommen had had a fever once, a fever which made him sleep for a week.

She remembered how worried she had been, how they had all been. She hadn’t understood, not even when her septa explained it to her. She had been there when her brother came back to them; she would never forget that day. All the colour had left her mother’s cheeks when her brother had awoken, her shock sending her to tears. It had only been a fever, a fever which his body could only fight whilst he was asleep.

She wondered if that was it.

It sounded like a kinder option than any other she could think of.

But her rest was full of dreams. When Tommen had woken, he had said he had dreamt of nothing. He had thought he had only closed his eyes for a moment...

In Myrcella’s dreams she was not sure what it was she even dreamt of. She dreamt of sands, sands which were burnt red, and the snow reaching even there. The snows touched everything in the winter of her dreams. And amidst it all, she was lost, but somehow, she knew her way. And sometimes she thought she saw a child, a child with a face which was both Rickon and Tommen. It was Robb’s child, she realised.

It was their son.

Yet, the child brought her no great joy. She wept at the sight of him stood there. She called for the child and tried to reach for it, but she could never quite reach that child, no matter how far she ran and how loudly she called.

She thought, sometimes, she saw Bran as well, flickering on the edges of her dreams, trying to get in but being forced out. She would always find him too late, noticing him only as he faded from sight. The poor boy, she hummed, reaching for him always too late, always too late…

And there, there off in the distance, was surely the Keep, the home she had once known? Was that the glint of the waters she had looked out upon for so many years? Was that the pale red of the walls glowing in the morning light? Or was it simply her mind playing tricks upon her? It was hard to know in dreams. What should have made sense rarely did.

“Myrcella! Myrcella!”

She smiled. Was that Tommen?

And suddenly it was as though they were children again, giggling as they ran in the gardens, hiding behind rosebushes from their governess.

“I’m here!” She cried. “I’m here. I’m here!”

But where was he?

“Tommen? Tommen?”

The sand was hot beneath her feet. The snows had gone. The Red Keep was gone. It was all gone. She didn’t understand, all that was left was the sand burning red beneath her bare feet. “Tommen?”

“I’m here.” She felt whispered against her cheek. “I’m here.”

Had her eyes not been open until now?

With a sudden sharp intact of breath, Myrcella’s eyes flashed open. She gasped for breath.

Her eyes were wide and unseeing for a moment, blinking hard against the blur until; at last, Myrcella woke to find blue eyes, not green.

She found Robb’s face rather than her brother’s.

“What -?” She tried to sit up frantically, gasping for breath. The room seemed to spin for a moment, with only Robb remaining constant. Gently, Robb pressed her shoulders back down onto her pillow. “Where’s Tommen? What -?”

“They gave you some milk of the poppy, for the pain.” Robb explained. His tone seemed so unnaturally soft and controlled. She blinked slowly, her head and the room both still spinning.

“Why?” She asked. Her voice was oddly hoarse, as though from shouting. Words hurt as they came from her throat.

“You were in pain. We did not know what else to do.” He said, his face crumbling slightly. The control he had had before was gone. He looked at her with true anguish in his blue eyes. “You’ve been asleep for several days. We were not sure whether… whether…”

He looked away from her at that point, leaving the words left unsaid. He stared down at their entwined fingers with his lips pressed together in a tight line. His forehead was creased in a deep frown she wished she could smooth away.

She reached out for him and ran her fingers down his cheek. He forced a little smile for her and slowly, she sat up at long last.

“Bran is awake.” He quietly said, staring down at their joined hands. Her movements stilled at once. “He woke as though nothing had happened, as if he had simply been asleep…”

But when he looked at her, his eyes were full of tears.

“Can he -?” She started to ask, her voice as quiet as his, and he shook his head.

They sat together in silence for a long time, not speaking until Robb’s tears had dried and the cloudiness to her thoughts had passed. It all came back to her in time. She remembered slowly at first, then all at once. She remembered the woods and what she had found there and what she had had the misfortune to overhear and she placed a hand on the swelling at her belly.

“What happened?”

Robb looked at her and his eyes dropped to where her hand lay.

“It’s my fault.” He sighed. “Luwin said stress was affecting the child and -”

Her hand drew away sharply.

“And _what_?”

“He says the child is fine, but you need rest, above all things, and there cannot be a single worry in your head.” Robb lifted her hand from the bed and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. She frowned, looking away from him to the swelling of her belly. Was the life of their child surely doomed then? She did not know how to save herself from worry. Worry was what she did best, it seemed.

But Robb, sweet Robb, was looking at her. He seemed to expect something, so she smiled. She tried to smile brightly for him, pretending she was still the same true summer child she had always been, full of such hope and happiness. She was not sure where that person had gone, whether they had left her, or if she was simply trapped under a rain cloud, waiting for better days.

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” She found herself asking after some time had passed, unable to help herself. A part of her had almost expected Robb to be angry with her, but he wasn’t. He just looked sad. A pained look crossed his face, something which he unsuccessfully tried to hide. “We mustn’t ever lie to each other, you and I.”

Robb shook his head.

“I’m not lying, I swear to you. But… it’s serious, Myrcella. We didn’t know… we didn’t know whether either of you would be alright.”

“But there was blood, Robb. _Blood._  How could a child survive through all of that?” She thought of what Jon had said to Robb before he left, words she had thought had been said in jest - _you Starks are hard to kill._ Was that true for their child? Was their child strong, a Stark through and through? She squeezed her eyes closed, shaking her head slightly. If Robb said their child was fine, she would just have to make herself believe him. “Let us talk of something else.” Robb’s fingers tightened around hers. “Tell me what it is I have done to deserve the title of murderess.”

She thought she heard Robb sigh before she felt his lips brush against the back of her hand. She wanted to tear her hand from his grip, to yell and scream as she had done in the woods, but where would be the point in it? She would upset herself, endanger her child and she would have to live with that pained look in Robb’s eyes and know that she was the one who put it there.

“ _No one_ thinks that.” He said wearily.

“But Theon –”

“- needs to learn to think before he speaks. No one would ever think such a thing of you! We all know how much you care for Bran; we’ve known that all along. It is not you who is to blame… not you, but your family.” Robb leaned in then, dropping his voice to a whisper. “After her husband’s death, my aunt Lysa… my aunt Lysa sent a raven to my mother to say that it was the Lannisters who killed him. Lannisters, not some sudden illness. That was why my mother left. She believes it was not just the Hand who the Lannisters wanted dead. She thinks it is they who sent that man after Bran and who caused his fall. She’s gone to warn my father and to find out the truth, so that she can bring whoever widowed her sister and tried to kill my brother to justice.”

“Oh.” She said. It was all that could be said.

Her mind, still foggy from however much milk of the poppy they had given her, worked hard to process all the information she had been given so quickly. Frowning slightly as she chewed it all over, she placed the hand that Robb did not hold on the swelling of her belly once more. She left it there, finding that it comforted her. She waited for a kick or the feel of movement, but there was none. Her child left her waiting. “Why would they want Jon Arryn dead? Why would they want _Bran_ dead? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I never said it did. But it seems that it is the truth...” He murmured softly. He had about as many answers as she did, she realised. With a small sigh, she stared down at the roundness of her stomach. She would have to keep her thoughts clear, for the child’s sake.

She could do that, couldn’t she?

Distracted, she did not notice Robb move until she felt his fingertips brush across the side of her wrist. Very gently, with a small smile playing upon his lips, Robb placed his hand over hers. It was that action which drew a smile out of her at long last. It wasn’t all lost, then. Her happiness had not seen stolen from her. She would give Robb a child and he would love her, and they would endure, through winter, through family, through whatever the Gods decided to test them with. They would always endure.

 

\--

 

She had been trapped her bed for over a week, a nightmarish week which consisted of terrible embroidery and reading, but mostly just trying and failing to sleep. Myrcella had never been the type to sit around and do nothing, and with the burden of having to keep her thoughts clear, there was surely no greater punishment for her.

Luwin had visited from time to time, to see if both she and the child were well, and in that time, she had been forced to drink her weight in some sort of tea which tasted of honey and reminded her somewhat of the medicine her mother would have the servants bring her whenever her throat was sore and troubling her.

Greywind, who had seemed to double in size over night, had scarcely left her side, and for that she was grateful. When her impatience got the better of her and she stabbed her thumb with a needle for the thousandth time, Greywind would lift his head off of the bed or off the floor and cock his head to the side as he regarded her. That alone could coax a smile out of her.

“I have to go see Bran, will you come with me?”

Looking up in surprise, she saw that Robb stood in the doorway. She hadn’t even heard the door open. She had been distracted, staring down at her bleeding thumb while trying to ignore the occasional twitch of Greywind’s leg as he slept, his head sat atop her legs.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Robb said with a fond smile, he crossed the room in three long strides and ducked down to press his lips to her forehead. She smiled slightly when Greywind woke, the direwolf lifting his head off of her legs. “It’s almost time for supper. I’d say it’s about time you came and ate with us again.”

Rubbing her eyes, her response was to smile. Any words she had were cut off by the long, traitorous yawn which escaped her. Despite being in bed day after day, she was always found herself feeling tired, but unable to sleep.

Pushing the thick covers off of herself, she slowly sat up and allowed Robb to help her to her feet. “Are you alright?” He asked in a quiet voice as she moved over to the dresser where one of the servants had laid out a dress several days ago. There were no words to say how glad she would be of some fresh air.

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.” She murmured as she pulled her dress over her small clothes. It felt a little loose, as, fortunately, she had had some bigger dresses made for herself. It was the only productive thing to come out of her bed rest – her remembering to ask the servants before she had the chance to forget.

“Ready?”

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded. Before they left, however, she quickly ran a brush through her hair and did her best to ignore the sight of her pale face staring back at her in the mirror and the dark circles beneath her eyes.

“Ready.”

He took her by the hand as they left.

Robb laughed as he closed the door and she looked back to see why. In the moments between his hand touching the handle of the door and the door closing, Greywind had shifted off of the bed and within an instant, was at their feet. She smiled, ghosting her fingers across the top of the wolf’s head before Robb shut the door and took her by the hand again.

They did not speak much during the walk to Bran’s chambers. They rarely did. Silence, she had discovered over time, was never uncomfortable with Robb. She cherished it – the pleasure of simply being in his company.

The weather, she noted, wasn’t much to speak of. The sky was grey and the air cold, but it didn’t matter. She was free of the confines of her bed and the air she breathed didn’t feel stale and old. She closed her eyes for a moment, simply taking in the clean air and the feel of Robb’s warm fingers wrapped around hers.

When Robb pushed the door open to Bran’s room, she found she wasn’t afraid as she once had been. Her friend wasn’t dead. Her friend wasn’t going to die. Her friend was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Robb entered the room first and she followed him after a moment.

“What are you telling him now?” Robb asked Old Nan with a grin. As she stepped into the small room, Myrcella saw that Old Nan was sat beside Bran’s bedside, knitting and telling him stories, as she had done with all the Starks. She smiled at her very briefly before she permitted herself to look at Bran.

He seemed so small, lying there. Yet, still, at the sight of him, she smiled. She moved very quickly to his bedside, sitting on the opposite side of where Old Nan sat. Bran seemed to force the smile which he gave her, but she didn’t mind.

“Only what the little Lord wants to hear.”

“Get your supper; I want some time with him.”

“I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to see you sooner.” She quietly said as she reached out to touch his cheek. He was cold, much colder than he should have been. She drew her hand away to drag one of the many blankets right up to his chin.

“It’s alright.” Bran muttered, his tone was flat and oddly hollow. Worry filled her before she could even think of stopping it.

Looking away from Bran, she smiled faintly at the sight of Robb. Robb watched Old Nan close the door behind her and then, looking back at them, he grinned broadly.

“One time, she told me the sky is blue because we live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant named Macomber.” Robb told them, grinning in amusement at them both. Only Myrcella bothered to smile back at him.

“Maybe we do.” Bran replied in that same flat, hollow voice.

Robb seemed to hear it then, that strange and terrible lifelessness. Myrcella saw the smile fade from his lips as he stepped forwards.

“How do you feel?” He asked, his eyes, very briefly, meeting Myrcella’s. The worry in his eyes matched what was surely in hers. He sat down on the other side of the bed as he looked back to his brother. “You still don’t remember anything?” Bran said nothing, he only shook his head. “Bran,” He looked back at her before he began, his frown deepening. She wanted to reach out and take his hand, but she remained still.  “I’ve seen you climb a thousand times, in the wind and the rain – a thousand times. You never fall.”

“I did though.” She tore her eyes off of Rob to look at Bran. _Poor, sweet Bran._ She watched his expression change before he spoke again. “It’s true, isn’t it, what Maester Luwin says about my legs?”

Robb’s jaw clenched as he nodded.

“I’d rather be dead.”

She did not mean to, and it shamed her to do so, but at once, Myrcella gasped. Her hand rose quickly to cover her lips, to somehow mask her alarm, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Bran didn’t even look at her. Her dear friend just stared at Robb, his expression blank, his eyes lifeless, as though he truly were dead.

“Don’t _ever_ say that!”

“I’d rather be dead.” The boy repeated.

He did not speak after that. No one did, not for a long time. Robb frowned down at his brother, his jaw clenched, while she simply sat, dumbfounded, with no hope of finding proper coherent words to say.

Those seemingly unseeing eyes of Bran’s stared up at Robb for a long time before, with a slight tremble of his lower lip, he closed his eyes. His small hands curled into fists as his sides.

“I…” She found herself stammering after she could no longer bare the tension which lay in the silence. “I think we best leave for supper…”

Robb looked up at her then; his eyes were slightly glassy, as though he were close to tears. She thought of how exultant he had been when they entered the room and it made her heart ache even more so than it already was.

“We’ll talk more soon.” Robb told Bran after a moment. He cleared his throat as he stood and as he turned, she thought she saw him wiping a hand across his face. There was no shame in a man’s tears, she wanted to say, no shame at all.

Reaching out, she laid her hand against Bran’s cheek once more.

“I am so very glad you are awake, Bran, even if, for now, you are not.” As she said her words, she pressed a kiss to where her hand had been upon his cheek. She had not known how much she had missed her friend until that moment.

She blinked against the threat of tears when she stood and she smiled wistfully to herself for a moment before she moved away. She looked back over her shoulder, pausing at the doorway, and saw that Bran had opened his eyes. He watched her go with a pucker forming between his brows. He looked so much like Jon that moment that she had to turn away, inexplicably sad. She closed the door behind her without saying another word and stepped out into the corridor which felt much colder than it had done before.

Robb stood outside of Bran’s room, staring down at the floor with the same conflicted expression on his face. She lifted her hand and placed it on his shoulder. He did not turn, but she heard him sigh at her touch. “Come now, we do not want to be late for supper.”

She made to take his hand, so that they could walk together, hand in hand, as they always did, but Robb shook his head. When he turned and look at her at long last, his eyes were very wide. She did not think she had ever seen him look so sad, or so entirely broken down. She did not know what to say or do.

“I don’t know what to do.” He said. “I don’t know what to do…”

“Oh, my love…” She pulled him by the elbow and made him face her. She touched his cheek for a moment before she drew him into her arms without a second thought. She felt his head drop and he buried his head in the crook of her head. She ran her fingers through his hair and let herself sigh. “Do not think of it. Your mother will be home soon and Bran… Bran will find a way to adjust. He has gone through so much, but he will find a way back to us. I promise.”

They had sworn never to lie to each other, but it was not so much a lie, was it? She did not know whether Bran would come back to them as the boy he had once been, but she felt within her heart that it was the right thing to tell him. She spoke the words Robb needed to hear and because of it, it was not a lie and not a promise she did not know she could keep. Within her heart, she was telling the truth.

After some time, she felt Robb nod.

His arms tightened around her before he let her go.

“You’re right.” He mumbled very quietly. He looked away from her, looking to the door that led to Bran’s room. Robb seemed to want to say something more, but he didn’t. He kissed her briefly, sweetly, before he turned and spoke again. “We shouldn’t… we shouldn’t miss supper.”

He moved away before she could stop him, leaving her alone in the cold.

_It’s alright,_ she told herself as she walked to the dining hall alone, _it’s alright._

But it wasn’t alright.

None of it was.

 

 

\--

 

 

Her mother sent her letters eventually, letters which came to her attached to Tommen’s. Finding them waiting for her upon her bed and knowing she was not yet forgotten had a calming effect on her. It seemed to remove the weight which she had been carrying upon her shoulders.

To see her mother’s neat hand and her brother’s messy scrawl brought back some of the lightness she had been long without. She smiled a faint, ghost of a smile down at her brother’s letter, the sight of his spidery writing chipping away the worry she had been shrouded in for so long. _You are a prince of Westeros_ , theor governess had once snapped at Tommen, leaving them both giggling behind their hands once she stormed away, _you cannot sign your name with a scribble!_

Joffrey and her father, she noticed, had not written to her.

Her father was never a man of words, so for him it was to be expected. She forgave him for that, as she always did.

Joffrey had never written to her.

She had written to him once, but she was not sure – in hindsight – why. Her brother sent no letters, not even to congratulate her on her wedding. She told herself that that was not something which could surprise her.

Her brother, she hoped, would be busy, busy with she who was to be his bride. She prayed sometimes, when she was alone with her thoughts, that Joffrey would treat sweet Sansa Stark well, with all the decency that Robb had treated her. She prayed to both the Old Gods and the New, even if she knew her prayers were wasted. He would make an ill husband, as he had made an ill brother. It was simply not in his nature to be anything different.

Myrcella told herself not to think of Joffrey when she picked up her letters. Alas, he did not deserve to be in her thoughts. She would never be in his, so why should he be in hers?

She sat alone to read her letters.

She had left her bed and the castle and chose a spot which was bathed in sunlight. She found warmth there. She sat upon a little bench that looked upon the courtyard. She could see the tops of the trees of the Godswood from there.

No one bothered her there, she was glad of it.

In her mother’s letter, she spoke of the usual things, things her mother must have supposed she would have found interesting. She spoke, at first, of the heat and the summer which she was sure would not end, then of Joffrey. It seems her brother had been attacked on the kingsroad by one of the direwolves, and that the ‘villains’ had gone unpunished.

Her mother warned her of the wolves. She told her not to trust them. Myrcella did not know, as she read, whether she meant direwolves or the wolves to which she was wed. Either way, her mother’s warning was ignored, forgotten.

In her letter, which spanned over many pages, her mother did not ask much of the child that would surely make her a grandmother. Rather, she touched very briefly on how she hoped she was well, despite the savageness of the North, and asked – much to her surprise - of Bran.

_What a poor creature, how very sorry I am for his fate._

_Perhaps it was ill-fated that he woke at all._ What her mother wrote - something which, despite her conflictions - Myrcella agreed with.

Myrcella set her mother’s letters down beside her with a strange sort of heaviness pulling at her heart. _Strange,_ she thought to herself. She had never quite felt quite like she did that day, a hollow feeling filling her as she picked up Tommen’s letter. His letter, she knew, would be one of joy. For all the wrong the world did him, her brother remained a child, innocent and untouched. She could only hope that his joy would give her some of her own.

Her brother talked of his precious kittens and how they fared, of playing knights with some visiting lord’s young son and of the butterfly he had sworn he had seen caught in a spider’s web.

She could almost hear her brother’s words as she read them, his sweet, musical tones ringing like bells in her ears. Myrcella touched her lips, feeling for her own smile. She had not been sure that she would find one there, but she did. She always found herself smiling, one way or another, when she thought of her sweet Tommen, unchanged by time and the distance between them. Surely, even when he was a mangrown and had a family of his own, he would remain her sweetling brother, forever a child and forever sweet.

Nothing could ever spoil him in her heart.

“It’s good to see you smile.” She heard, and saw, when she looked beside her, that Robb stood near. There was a sword in his hand. He must have been practicing with Theon in the yard. “I have missed it.”

Frowning a little at the poignant undertone to his words, she did not know what to say. Robb lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. She heard him sigh before he tossed his sword away from him and approached her. “Are you unhappy?” Robb quietly asked as he sat down beside her on the small bench.

At once, she laid her hand over his. Robb stared down at their hands as he carefully turned his hand so that he could thread his fingers through hers. His hand was so much bigger than hers, yet somehow, together, they seemed to fit.

“Not unhappy, no.” She said, “Just… sad.”

With obvious restraint, Robb continued to stare down at their joint hands. She saw his jaw clench and felt herself sigh inwardly. “Sad,” She murmured, “for your brother _and_ mine.”

She stared down at Tommen’s letter, pinned to her lap beneath her and Robb’s hands. “I fear I will always miss him.”

It seemed wrong of her to pity herself and her situation. She did not know anything of true hunger or loss. She did not have any story of great woe for the singers to sing of when she was gone. She was not bound to a bed, her back and legs unbroken. She did not have a husband who struck her, who abused her, but instead, she had one who cared and comforted her. And she was to have a child, a little babe who would know no unhappiness. Her child lived and so did she. She had no right to long for more.

“But…” She took a moment. She took a breath and raised their joint hands to her lips. She kissed Robb’s knuckles, bruised and cut after practicing swordplay with Theon. She kissed him when the skin was not red, where she would not hurt him and she felt his fingers tighten around her own. “I would have it no other way.”

“I love you.” He said, and she smiled.

“And I love you.”

And that she did, with her whole heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit smaller than the others - sorry about that! I'll just have to make the next longer. I think I might throw in a Robb POV in the next couple of chapters, to show how things are going from his perspective. I drew the Bran scene directly from the tv show, rather than the book, mostly for convenience. It's lazy of me, but it's just so much easier to watch the episode than it is find my book and scour it for the right chapter.
> 
> Anyho', I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll try to update as soon as I can. I'm still a bit ill, so if I've muddled up some sentences or the grammar is just, like, appalling, please let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Sensitive themes are explored in this chapter (lots of trigger warnings and such do apply, so do be aware)

“Do not be gone too long, my love.” She found herself murmuring distractedly as she helped fasten his cloak. Robb looked at her over his shoulder and smiled bemusedly at the expression on her face. She frowned, yet at the same time, she smiled. It was an expression her mother often wore. Myrcella blinked in surprise at the thought and brushed it away. She pulled Robb by the shoulder, forcing him to face her. “I do not like it when you are gone from my side.”

He brushed a lock of her hair behind her ears and, looking up; she saw that there were snowflakes melting with his own hair.

Robb rolled his eyes as she brushed the flakes of snow from his hair, but she knew he did not mind, not truly.

“Never.” He said in a low voice, and she grinned. He bent his head and he kissed her then, filling her with the same warmth she had felt the morning after their wedding night. It felt so long since they had truly lain together. She felt herself blush as she thought of it, of what she had not truly hungered for until then.

Their kisses were feverish, rougher and more desperate than usual, as though he were leaving her for days, not mere hours. She felt him laugh against her lips as she grabbed frantically at his hair, and she smiled for a moment before she dragged him back to her.

“Myr – Myrcella! I’ll be late!” He exclaimed as he drew away. It made her laugh to see him panting slightly. Dropping her eyes to his lips, she saw that they were red from kissing. Smirking slightly, she lifted her hands from his hair and ran the pad of her thumb across his lower lip. The corner of Robb’s lip twitched as her hand dropped back down to her side.

“Come back to me soon, alright?”

“Alright.” He said, so quietly she almost missed it, before his lips descended upon hers once more.

She could hear his men yelling for him to come down, but she pretended as though she did not as she was pushed back against the wall. She felt Robb’s hand against her breast and she could not help but laugh against his lips.

“Seven hells.” Robb groaned, “It’s only a stupid hunt. I don’t need to go -”

She could hear Theon yelling – and swearing mighty colourfully, as well - and once more, she was left laughing against Robb’s lips.

“You’d best go before he has a tantrum.” She japed, speaking the truth even if she wished she didn’t. All she wanted was to stay as they were, always. She had missed the feel of Robb pressed against her and the need she had for his lips to be upon any part of her. She was a married woman and no maid, yet still she blushed at the thought of what she truly wanted from her husband.

Clutching him to her, they embraced once more before Robb was called away. She watched him go from the window, smiling as he mounted his horse and lifted his hand in a wave. Theon, laughing, smacked his shoulder and urged him on. Even from behind a pane of glass, she could hear Robb’s laughter as he and his dearest friend rode away. 

She turned away from the window smiling.

She paused for a moment before she left the room, stopping at the slight twinge of pain she felt at her side. _Mustn’t worry,_ she told herself as she pulled a thick cloak over her shoulders, _mustn’t worry…_

 

\--

 

Smiling, she stared down at her uncle’s letter fondly.

_If I don’t leave soon, they’ll think I’ve joined the Watch. Though - imagine your mother’s face. It would almost be worth it!_

The thought of seeing her uncle again – and soon – filled her with unbridled joy. As much as she loved her uncle Jaime and her uncle Renly, her uncle Tyrion had always been her favourite. She loved him in spite of all the horrid things her mother told her and all the names which people called him when they thought he could not hear – but, perhaps in some small way, that was why she loved him as much as she did. She loved him because she felt as though no one else did.

_My dearest Myrcella, I would bring you back a grumpkin or a snark if I could, but alas, I cannot seem to find any!_

Her laughter was cut short as - uncontrollably; she released a strangled sound which she barely recognised as her own.

The pain caught her off-guard. Everything around her began to swim and distort. She had thought she had known pain before, when she had bled in the Godswood, but this was so much worse than it had been before. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as, staggering slightly; she turned to clutch at whatever she could get her hands on.

She fell hard against a wall, her breath rasping in her chest.

Robb was out riding with Theon. They would be gone for hours. The guards she had been sent from the South had been sent home after Bran’s attack, Theon had reasoned that they might be spies. Ser Rodrik had gone with Lady Catelyn. Jory had gone South with Lord Stark. Bran was bound to his bed. Rickon was too young and Maester Luwin was too old.

There was no one to save her. No one but herself, she thought hopelessly to herself as she tried to keep herself on her feet.

_Please,_ she cried to whichever one of the Gods were listening, _please don’t do this to me._

Her legs felt heavy, heavier than they had ever been before, as she dragged herself along the wall she held to keep herself from falling. Her uncle’s letter fell away to the floor, drowning in a puddle. She saw his words bleed, the ink running from the page like tears.

It had been over two months since the events in the Godswood. She had thought herself safe. She had been told over and over that staying in bed and saving herself from worry would protect her child, and that she thought she had done.

Surely… she had been wrong.

The scream, as she slumped to the floor, fell from her lips before she could ever even dream of stopping it.

 

\--

 

“The deer was closer to you then I am, how you could have possibly missed -”

The scream cut him short.

He raised his head.

Theon lowered his bow.

“Was that -?”

Another scream cut through his words. Robb’s blood chilled as all the colour from his face drained away, leaving him ashen-faced and afraid.

“Myrcella?”

 

 

\--

 

 

She heard her name carried on the wind before she saw them. Lying quite still, she had given up any attempt to crawl across the muddy ground. Nothing could have lifted her from her reverie, nothing but the sound of her own name.

She lifted her cheek from the floor and saw them coming. Men came with swords and women with worried eyes, all gasping and crying out her name as they found their lord’s wife fallen, her nails bloodied and her cheeks streaked with tears.

She closed her eyes when she felt their hands on her, rough and desperate. She felt the pain then, the pain she had been trying her hardest to ignore.

Someone dragged her upright and drew her into their arms. They carried her into the castle as though it were nothing, as though she weighed little more than a feather.

She should have found comfort in their care, in the obvious despair they felt for her – but she couldn’t. It was not their love she wanted. She had been coming to Winterfell for years and she had left her family behind each time as though it were nothing. And in that time, she had never truly craved her home. She hadn’t longed for King’s landing, unless out of a desire to see Tommen or loneliness that was brought on by being a stranger, but as she was carried into the castle, there was no place she would rather be than home.

She wanted Tommen.

She wanted her mother.

As she was brought into the castle, she almost cried out for her.

Her mother would know what to do. Her mother would know what to say. Her mother would tell her to be brave, to save her tears for better use and to keep her heart far away from the matter.

But she couldn’t… she _couldn’t._

It was her doing. It was her fault. Myrcella had killed her own child.

 

 

\--

 

 

She had never known pain like this.

Screaming, she didn’t care who heard her.

Her septa had always told her that a noble lady should remain quiet whilst in labour. She should remain composed and respectful of the Gods and send her prayers to them whilst in her birthing bed.

Myrcella tried, she truly did. She bit down upon her tongue, thinking of what her mother might say if she were there, but she couldn’t. She had chewed down upon her tongue and then her lower lip until it had bled. Then, letting her mouth fall open, she couldn’t have stopped the screams from coming, not even the Gods themselves could have stopped her.

It was like nothing she had never known. It was so – so _demanding_. No matter how hard she tried to think of other things, the pain was there, demanding to be felt and screaming to be endured. It was like she was being stabbed over and over with daggers, all the while being told that this was normal, that the pain was natural. But it wasn’t. Even she knew that.

She had been carried up to her bed and rather than change her for birthing, her dress had simply been pushed up her knees. Her servants had prepared tea and brought ice for her and said words which they thought were kind, but nothing helped.

Nothing could help her, not now.

“My lady!” One of the servants exclaimed, their tone less afraid than it should have been. She felt someone’s hand touch her arm and she opened her eyes. Everything seemed to be a blur. “Your husband is at the door. He wants to -”

“No!” She cried uncontrollably, her voice was as much a stranger to her as her shrieks and screams were. “ _No_! He is _not_ to come in!”

A lady births alone, a queen dies alone.

Her mother never allowed for her husband to enter her birthing chambers and neither would she. The only man to enter was the ashen-faced maester, who hurried to her side and told her that all would be well.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she released another wail, one which sent the servant hurrying away from her. Another appeared in her place and she felt something cold and damp being pressed to her forehead.

For a moment, she felt as though she was aware of all that went on around her – Robb banging at the door, the maester shouting orders at her from between her legs, her servants uselessly wiping the sweat from her brow – everything which was quickly consumed by her pain.

She felt like she was drowning in it. It didn’t feel as though she would ever escape it.

“It’s too early.” She thought her heard someone say in a low voice, seemingly trying to be quiet and trying to avoid her hearing. _Too late,_ she thought to herself. The damage was done. “It’s much too early.”

“I fear she will not pull through... It seems almost a miracle that she was with child in the first place, and for so long, too.” Another said, this time not even bothering to be quiet. Myrcella felt herself sitting up slightly, craning her neck as she tried to look for whoever said such words.

She thought wildly of seeing their head slung from their shoulders, their body crumpling to the floor... No one could say such things. Not to her. Not with Robb so near. With her hands curling into fists and clutching the sullied sheets so tightly she felt something rip, she thought of her child – Robb’s child, _their_ child – and it was almost enough to dull the pain. He had always said that they would have such lovely babes…

“Because she is so young?”

A lord’s wife had worried about her hips, she suddenly remembered. She had heard her whispering about it to Lady Catelyn on her wedding day. When she had told Robb about it the day next, he had laughed and told her not to worry…

And she hadn’t worried. Not until now…

Falling back down onto the bed, she lifted her hands to her damp face, wet from tears and wet from sweat. She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes and bit back another scream.

No one had ever told her to push. No one had told her to do anything but keep calm. She knew then, as she lifted her hands from her eyes, that something was wrong. Something was very wrong, indeed.

“No -”

“My grandmother – she – she died in birthing. Am I the same?” Somehow, words were possible. Her despairing words fell from her lips, amongst the cries and the sharp, shrill shrieks she was unable to muffle or control.

Blinking tears from her eyes, she thought of her grandmother, of Joanna Lannister, the woman who they said had stolen the only good within her grandfather.

The thought of her grandmother made her cry out hysterically – but for different reasons than before. She did not cry for pain, but for guilt and for anguish. She thought of her mother and the way that she looked at her uncle Tyrion, blaming him for what had happened. They said that when he came into the world, it was he who killed her. Would they do that to her child? Would they blame him once she was gone?

Or would they blame her?

“Please,” She wept, “am I the same?”

“No, my lady, you are not the same as she was.” The maester told her in kind words, but his words were no kindness to her – the hand that touched her knee left blood there. Her blood, she wondered, or her child’s blood? “You may yet live, child, but the babe will not. I’m afraid your body does not appear to be fit for childbearing.”

“Am I not a woman?”

Myrcella did not hear the maester’s answer.

Throwing her head back, she released a terrible scream that seemed to echo all around her. She heard raised voices and thought she saw Robb before the pain seemed to rip through her. It truly was like nothing she had ever known before.

She felt a sudden wetness at her thighs and as she bit back her cries, she lifted her head from the pillow. She waited for the cries of a tiny child which would be hers and Robb’s, their one perfect treasure. She looked for the child whom they would both love and she found nothing. Maester Luwin was watching her, his eyes sad, whilst the women took the bundle away.

Was that their child? Did it have no voice for her to hear?

Lifting her hand, she reached after it, but her fingers found only air.

“The child did not live, my lady. I do not believe it ever really did.”

Myrcella released another scream, but of a different kind of pain all together.

 

\--

 

“Myrcella! Myrcella!”

He had cried her name so much; he scarcely had any voice left to speak to those who would try to keep him from her.

“My Lord, forgive me – but you are not to enter! My Lady Myrcella forbad it! She did not wish for you to see her in such a state.” One of the servant girls yelled, but he could barely hear her over the noise – the frightful noise which was his wife, in pain beyond his comprehension, without him by her side.

_I do not like it when you are gone from my side._

“Myrcella!” He called again and again. “Myrcella!”

He had never thought of what would come when their child was ready to enter the world – because it wasn’t time, not yet. It was too soon. Nothing good could come from what was happening in the room which he was barred from.

His love, his _Myrcella_ was going through this alone. That he – could not - _would_ _not_ allow.

Furiously wiping away the tears which sullied his cheeks, he bit back the harsh words he wanted to bellow at the Gods themselves and forced his way past the servant girl. He didn’t care what would come of her, He didn’t care. He didn’t care. He didn’t care. _Damn her,_ he thought as he threw himself against the door. He meant resistance and swore at whoever it was keeping him from her.

He felt Theon at his back but he didn’t care.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t care.

He couldn’t care.

The sound of her screams would surely be with him until the day he died. Perhaps even after that.

He would be haunted by the sound.

He would not know a moment’s peace if he was not by her side when she needed him the most.

“Myrcella! Myrcella!”

“Be still, my lady!” He heard someone cry, but she only screamed.

“Myrcella! Myrcella!”

Theon tried to pull him back, pulling him hard and forcing him away from the door. Robb threw his arm back, his elbow meeting Theon’s nose. Theon fell away, clutching his face as blood seeped through the gaps between his fingers. ‘ _Bastard!’_ Theon swore, but Robb didn’t care. Robb only spared him a moment’s glance before he threw himself at the door once more, pounding his fists violently against the wood, opening the small wounds on his knuckles which had barely had a chance to heal.

“Myrcella! Myrcella!”

The door opened and he fell through it.

He fell to his knees, hard, and thought he saw someone running past him holding something in their arms. But his eyes – his eyes were not for them.

His eyes were for her, only her.

With her face hidden from him, he might not have known anything was wrong.

She wore the same yellow-gold dress she wore that morning when they had parted, but – but no, it was pushed up to her knees and there he saw, staining the white of the sheets, was red. Red, which meant only one thing, which only _ever_ meant one thing. _Blood_ , he thought to himself as he tried to keep himself from weeping, _why must there be so much blood?_

“Myrcella!” He cried. “Myrcella!”

But Myrcella made no sound.

Myrcella did not scream. Myrcella cried no more.

 

\--

 

“I must say, I received a much warmer welcome on my last visit.”

Robb blinked, but he did not look the man’s way. He kept his eyes fixed deliberately on his black-clad companion, on one of the men Jon had swapped him as a brother for.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch is welcome at Winterfell.” Robb said, ignoring him, and continuing to keep his attention fixed on the man of the Black rather than the Imp. His eyes flickered his way for a brief moment and he had to bite back his smirk, watching the little man take mild offence at his words. It was a small pleasure to insult the man who wished his brother dead, but a pleasure all the same.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch, but not I? Eh, boy?”

“I’m not your _boy_ , Lannister.” He said, his tone bordering on unkind. He had thought, perhaps, that it might’ve gone unnoticed, but it wasn’t. It never was. He saw the maester shoot him a glance, but he paid him no mind. “I am Lord of Winterfell while my father is away.”

The Imp seemed to take no notice of the venom riding upon his tone.

“You might learn a lord’s courtesy.”

_Perhaps the same courtesy you showed my brother?_

The door opened on the other side of the room and Robb watched, wincing uncontrollably as he always found himself doing, as Hodor brought his brother in, hanging limp and broken in his arms.

“So it’s true.” The Imp somehow found the courage to say. His surprise was almost convincing. Grey Wind stirred at his feet, growling so quietly that only Robb could hear. He smiled ever so slightly as he grazed his fingertips across the top of the direwolf’s head. “Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?”

“He has no memory of that day.” Luwin replied for him.

Robb bit his tongue, forcing down the words which surely the Lannisters would have his head for.

“Curious…”

“Why are you here?” He was unable to stop himself from saying. What joy could this bring to the man? To see the boy he no doubt crippled? To see the boy he desired to see bleed alone in the dark by Valyrian steel?

“Would your charming companion be so good as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt.”

“Kneel, Hodor.” Bran said, his voice very small. Bran had not been out of his bed in days. It was unkind of him to have sprung the Imp’s visit on him so quickly. Robb should have gone for him himself, rather than sending Theon in his place.

“Do you like to ride, Bran?”

“Yes – well, I mean – I _did_ like to.”

Robb had to look away. He looked down at Greywind, who watched the scene with an indifference Robb envied. He could not bring himself to look back to Bran. The sight of his brother’s face was too painful for him to bear.

“The boy has lost the use of his legs.” Luwin answered once more. Robb glanced his way and was surprised. The look upon his face one Robb had never seen there before. He hated the Lannisters just as much as he did, he realised.

“What of it? With the right horse and saddle even a cripple can ride -”

“I’m not a cripple!”

“Then I’m not a dwarf!” The Imp continued to test his patience. Robb could feel the hilt of his sword. So close… yet too far. They could kill him, but what good would come of it? “My father will be rejoiced to hear it!” The Imp smiled. It was a strange sort of smile, not one would expect from a murderer. “I have a gift for you. Give that to your saddler. He'll provide the rest."

The Imp handed Bran something, something which Robb could not see. Luwin shot him a glance, his confusion as evident as Robb’s was. "You must shape the horse to the rider.” The Imp explained, casting Robb a single glance before his eyes returned to Bran. “Start with a yearling and teach him to respond to the reins and to the boy's voice.”

"Would I really be able to ride?" Bran asked in an almost hopeful voice, looking up from whatever the Imp had given him. He had thought Bran to be gone from them, to be without hope – but he was wrong, because there it was hope. And it was given to him by a Lannister... Robb narrowed his eyes, caught somewhere between suspicion and resentment.

“You will.” He answered in an oddly soft voice. Robb waited for Greywind to growl, to signal any dishonesty in the half-man’s words, but his wolf remained silent, his head sat upon his large paws. “On horseback, you will be as tall as any of them...”

“Is this some kind of trick?” He asked, making no effort to mask his disbelief. “Why do you want to help him?”

“I have a tender-spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things.”

"You've done my brother a kindness...” Robb found himself saying, his eyes locked, not on the Imp, but on Bran’s smile. He had not seen his brother smile since before the fall. And the Imp had given him that - that he could not deny. “The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."

“Spare me your faults courtesies, _Lord_ Stark. Now, take me to my niece, I long to see her.” The Imp said, a smile forming upon his face as he spoke of Myrcella. Robb had been moving to rise to his feet, but at the mention of Myrcella, Robb’s movements stilled, his blood running cold.

“I’m… I’m afraid my lady Myrcella is not taking guests. She will not see you.” He said, unable to think of any words which could speak the truth without speaking too much of it. But the Imp – oh, the clever damn Imp, seemed to see through his words. He smiled in a bemused sort of way before he spoke again.

“Nonsense! I am her beloved uncle; I can assure you that I am someone she would wish to see.”

With a sigh, Robb rose from the table. He pushed back his chair and shot Bran a smile before Hodor stood. Bran was still staring down at whatever the Imp had given him when Hodor carried him from the room. Greywind followed closely at his heels, not making a single sound as Robb stepped around the table and gestured for the Imp to follow him out of the hall.

Gritting his teeth as he heard Myrcella’s uncle whistling, he forced himself to slow his pace. He would show the half-man a kindness for what he had done to Bran, and for what he knew he had the power to do to Myrcella.

“Tell me, why does my niece refuse to see –?” The Imp began to ask, but Robb cut him off with a heavy sigh. It was not a long walk to the chambers, but walking at the half-man’s pace made it feel as though it was.

When they reached the door which would lead them to her, Robb squeezed his eyes closed. He had to stop; he had to take a breath.

“She’s in there.”

He pushed at the door and it swung open, the moment playing out so differently than before… He sighed once more before he followed the Imp into the room.

The room seemed to hold the memory, carrying it with it. He could still feel the chill in the air, the room cold in spite of the fire. The walls would be haunted by the sound of her screams and the sheets never truly free of all the blood.

Upon the bed, lying so very still and pale, was his wife.

She had scarcely moved since that day.

She had come so close, they had said, to joining their child. The Stranger had taken his child – his _son –_ and had almost taken her too.

It had only been several days – but they were days which felt like lifetimes - and she was still lost to him. 

_Don’t go,_ he had cried at her side, _please, don’t go._

A pale as the sheets upon which she lay, the only colour to her face were the locks of golden hair which had fallen across her forehead.

_Don’t leave me._

The Imp seemed as lost for words as he was.

She had been ill with fever for the first day and she had been bled to bleed out any infection. He hadn’t thought that would help, considering how much blood she had lost already, but his words were lost on the old maester.

They had had to give her milk of the poppy for the pain, something which, as it had done before, had left her tired and trapped within a deep sleep. He heard her voice sometimes and ran to her side, but she was only ever dreaming. She was not ready to come back to him yet, it seemed.

“Myrcella?” He called in a soft, low voice. “Your uncle is here.”

But it was as though he were talking to the dead.

Greywind shifted from Robb’s side and leapt onto the bed. He swiftly settled down beside Myrcella, his head resting upon where her knees would be, as he had done so many times before.

The Imp looked up at him with wide eyes. He did not seem to know what to say. Robb did not blame him for that. His face had grown very pale and his hands, for a moment, looked as though they might begin to shake.

“How did this happen to her?” He exclaimed, his eyes returning to his niece.

Robb wanted to bury his hand in his hands and never face the world again.

_Don’t leave me, my love. Please don’t leave me._

“She almost died alongside the child.” He said, his voice already thick with grief.

“That cannot be. The child shouldn’t have come yet.” The Imp moved to Myrcella’s side, stretching up so that he could touch her cheek. Robb already knew how cold she would be. Her cheek would be as cold as the summer snows which gathered upon the window pane. 

“They say that the child was dead inside of her. It never… it never had a chance to live...” _But she had, she had had a chance to live through it. Where had her chance gone?_ The Gods could not be so cruel to take his son and then pause before they decided to take his wife too.

Looking back to Myrcella, Robb was taken aback by the genuine grief upon the Imp’s face. He had thought her family cruel and heartless, and that she alone had loved them and none had loved her in return – save, perhaps, her brother, Tommen. But he had been wrong. The love her uncle held for her was as clear to him as day.

“Myrcella?” Her uncle said her name softly, as softly as Robb had done. “I have travelled far to tell you this, so I do hope that you are listening - I pissed off of the top of the Wall like I said I would, and my, my I do believe it froze.”

Myrcella’s hands were clasped upon her lap, as they had been since the moment her servants had put them like that. He watched her hands, remembering their softness and how often he had held them, and thought, for a sweet fleeting second, that he saw one of her fingers twitch.

While he stared down at her hands, her uncle spoke to her as though he weren’t there. He spoke as though she were listening.

She had said, when she had been lost to them before, that she had been aware of him holding her hand and had heard voices around her, even if she did not understand the words the whispers contained. He smiled a ghost of a smile, hoping that her words would be true for a second time.

“I do not like to think of what would come of Tommen if anything were to happen to you, Myrcella… I am so very sorry that this has happened to you.” The Imp turned to him and said, his expression sincere. “Losing a child is never easy, for both the mother and the father.”

Robb looked up from Myrcella’s hands and nodded. He had told himself that all he needed was for her to come back to him but… but still a piece of him could not help but ache for the little thing which was their child. He had not seen him. He did not know what had become of him. He had wanted to wait for Myrcella to wake before he took their son down to the crypts where he belonged.

“How long has she been like this?”

“Three days.” He answered with a sigh. “But it feels much longer than that.”

“I’m sure it does…”

The Imp, he realised, ceased to be the Imp in that moment. He was not a Lannister or an enemy, he was simply someone who loved Myrcella and somehow who understood. Robb could not hate him, not for that.

 

\--

 

_Don’t leave me._

_Don’t go. Please, don’t go._

He woke in the middle of the night, gasping and out of breath.

_Please don’t leave me, my love._

He sat up for a moment, trying to catch his breath, and then he stood.

His nightshirt was damp with sweat and it stuck to his back as he paced the width of the small room. The fire had left the room warm and he needed the cold. He moved over to the window and threw it open, breathing in the cold night air. The star shone alone in the sky that night, there was no moon and there were no clouds.

Taking the air, he had thought it might help to clear his head, but it seemed to do the reverse. It cleared the haziness of his dreams from his mind and allowed for his thoughts to return to him.

Not that they were ever gone for long.

Nights were oft sleepless without her by his side.

He was alone, something which he had not been since the day they were wed. He was entirely alone with his thoughts and alone with his dreams.

Even Greywind was not by his side.

It seemed that the wolf would sleep nowhere but faithfully at her side.

Sighing, he turned away from the window and fell back against the wall. There was a tether which seemed to run from his heart to hers. He could feel its pull, the sligh tug which told him what he must do.

He ran his fingers through his hair before he had no choice but to move. The decision was made. Robb left the room without second thought.

He left his room and entered the adjoining room which had become Myrcella’s. He had visited her almost every night, either to say goodnight or to simply reassure himself that she was still there. Sometimes she was stirring, almost awake but not quite, and other times, she barely even seemed to breathe. Those were the worst nights.

“Robb?” He stopped, startled.

Myrcella sat awake, staring at him from across the room with impossibly wide eyes. She was sitting up in bed, her long hair spilling down her shoulders and over her white nightdress. She was as pale as a ghost.

“Myrcella.” He breathed before he stumbled towards her, his legs betraying him. He had no words to give her as he clawed his way to her side, sitting on his knees before her as a septon in a sept. He could only look at her for a moment, taking in the widened eyes and her colourless cheeks. She was but a shade of the Myrcella she had once been, but she was his Myrcella all the same. And she was back. She had come back to him. “Gods be good.”

He stole her hand and pressed kisses to her knuckles. He murmured her name between kisses, but Myrcella didn’t seem to even bat an eyelid. She just stared on ahead, her fair brows crinkling together.

“How long did you make me sleep for?” She asked, her voice very quiet and almost foreign to his ears.

“Several days.” He said. “Luwin said it would be for the best. You were in pain and you were struck by a fever.”

“I had such terrible dreams…” She whispered. Her expression was one he had never seen upon her face before. It was an expression of torment and of grief. He wished for nothing more than to see it gone. In cowardice, he lowered his eyes. He let his head fall back to the bed, laying his cheek upon her fair hand. “It’s my fault.” She said in a small voice. “It’s my fault…”

Robb raised his head. Now it was his turn to frown.

“What is?”

“ _This.”_ She hissed, looking at him at last. The milk of the poppy was still affecting her, he reasoned. They must have given her too much, just as they had done before. “I did this.”

He gripped her hand tightly, desperately. He wanted to say so many things, but words had never been a gift of his. He knew only what his father had taught him about being a lord and what Ser Rodrik had taught him about being a knight. That was all he knew.

“Myrcella…”

“You do not need to tell me, Robb. I know he is dead.” How was it that he was the one with tears in his eyes and not her? Perhaps they all had it wrong, women were the strong ones. He lowered his head, letting it rest beside their hands. He felt Myrcella’s other hand ghost across his shoulder before her fingers tightened in his hair. “And it’s my fault… I did this.”

She tore at his heart as though it were nothing.

Oh, how he loved her. Oh, how he hated her.

“ _Never_ say that!” _Not to me, please not to me._ “Nothing could have been done to stop it, Myrcella. Nothing could have saved him.”

Myrcella’s fingers loosened in his hair and he felt her hand slip away. Both of them, leaving him cold without her touch. Raising his head off of the bed, he saw, to his dismay, that she hid her face behind her hands.

“I am so sorry,” He could hear her whispering, but he knew, without having to be told, that it was not him who she was speaking to. “I am so sorry. I am so -”

Pushing himself up off of the floor and onto the bed, he drew her close. Gently pulling her into his arms, she folded into him, her hands falling away from her face to reveal cheeks which were wet and shining with tears. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before his arms tightened around her and her head fell upon his shoulder. He could feel her sobbing against his chest, her hands curled into small fists around his shirt. He lifted his hands and ran them through her long tangled hair. It seemed to calm her more than any whispered words ever could.

He did not know how long it was they remained like that. He did not care. Nothing could have parted him from her, not even the Gods themselves.

 

\--

 

There was no remedy for the ache inside of them. Time was all there was, but they were never truly given a chance to heal.

Her uncle, in many ways, aided her. His visit was a brief affair, but he spoke of all the things which Myrcella loved and was without in Winterfell, things which distracted her from the multitude of things he wished they could both forget.

He would see her sometimes smile, then stop herself, as though she remembered, as though she had reminded herself of all of the things which would cause her not to smile. It was that which hurt him most of all – her pain. She suffered, and her guilt caused her to suffer even more.

When the time came to act, she took him by the hand and shook her head when he spoke of the crypts. _Our son will not be kept in the darkness,_ she said, her eyes shining with tears she refused to let herself shed. Their son was a Stark of Winterfell, yet; somehow it seemed right when they buried that little bundle beneath an oak tree, where the sun would touch the little grave and where winter would never harm him in his rest.

Winter was coming, but not for their son.

Myrcella laid down wild flowers above the little grave and when she rose, he plucked the little bits of leaves from her hair and laid a kiss upon her cheek. She smiled then, smiling truly, honestly, without stopping herself in favour of her grief. Her smile was not as bright as it had once been, but he knew within his heart as their fingers laced together that she was coming back to him – piece by piece, brick by brick, his Myrcella was coming back to him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry about this chapter, for the delay and for the truck full of angst. This chapter was hard for me to write and I still have this stupid cold, so I might be a little late with the next update (sorry!) And if there are any typos/mistakes, I am so sorry, please let me know. My eyes are terribly watery this afternoon so I couldn't bring myself to proofread before posting.
> 
> Also - this is just to make a little timeline of the events and such, Myrcella was three months pregnant when her father visited, and I am not one hundred percent sure if this is exact to the timeline of the series/the books but I would say that Ned was in Kingslanding for maybe 3 months – or maybe 4 months before Tyrion left the Wall/visited Winterfell/was taken by Catelyn and kidnapped? in that it would be 1 month on the road to the South and then 3 months in the lead up to the Hand's tourney, making Myrcella 7 months pregnant. I am shocking at maths, so I've got to write little reminders for myself, and I thought I might just post it for people so they're aware of where things are and such.
> 
> My timeline’s probably pushing it a little, but I’m just adding in a little more time for things to make more sense and for there to be more room for things~
> 
> Anyhoo', as always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and do post a review if you did (or even if you didn't, I'd love to hear from you on your thoughts), they really do make my day.


	8. Chapter 8

 

Two moons had passed and it was as though none of it had ever happened.

All that remained was the ache within her heart.

The swelling where her child had been was almost entirely gone; her stomach was as smooth as it had been before, making it sometimes seem as though she had imagined it all in some feverish dream. And she would be happy in those moments, the pain of it forgotten, the agony unknown, but then… then she would see it in Robb’s eyes and it would return to her.

Despite being told by all who felt the need, that she was still young and she had all her life ahead of her to make another child with Robb, she felt as though something inside of her had been… altered, in a way.

A part of her had died - her innocence perhaps, or at least, her faith had. She no longer visited the sept. She could not bring herself to. What good did loving the Gods do when they did not seem to love her?

But yet, all the same, she could not keep herself from the godswood. She had not been taught believing in the Old Gods as Robb had, but yet, she was drawn to the woods and to the heart tree. She searched for answers there. Answers which did not come.

She was not sure what it was - she felt a calm wash over her whenever she sat before the tree where she and Robb had wed, where the floor was littered with ruby leaves, and where she and Tommen had once played.

She could almost hear her brother’s laughter amongst the whispers of the leaves.

She missed him more than ever. She thought of him, of his golden hair, of his plump rosy cheeks and his bright smiles and it made her eyes sting with tears she would not allow herself to shed. She could not allow herself to cry. Tears would not bring back what she had lost. Tears would only remind her of it.

Perhaps that was what she needed – her brother.

Perhaps she needed her brother’s sweetness to help bring back her own.

She needed his smile so she could remember a time before all of this.

But it was not as though she were without sweetness; she could not allow herself to think otherwise. Through everything, Robb had been unfailingly kind, kinder than she had ever thought imaginable. But then, she was always underestimating him, wasn’t she? She still thought all men to be like her father and like Joffrey, and in that, lay her blindness.

Nevertheless, it was not simply Robb who was the one to get her to see past her guilt, not truly, but her uncle.

Her uncle had been a kindness, his visit a true blessing in disguise. He had stayed far longer than he had expected, telling her stories which drew laughter from her and allowed her to forget for a moment. He read to her from books and used silly voices, something she had always begged of him when she was small. He had promised her before he had left, reluctantly drawn home by her grandfather, that the pain would pass, as all pain did, but she was still not so sure.

 

\--

 

In her hands, Tommen’s letter felt like a great weight, as his words and his love pulled her one way, while Robb and their life in Winterfell pulled her another.

_Something is wrong. Uncle Tyrion told me so._

_Mother tells me it’s nothing, but it isn’t. I don’t know what’s happening, ‘Cella. When are you coming home? Are you coming home?_

_Will they ever let you come home?_

 

\--

 

“Myrcella?”

Robb woke her gently, the backs of his fingers brushing along her cheekbone. Even in her sleep, she smiled faintly, murmuring quietly in appreciation. “Myrcella, love, open your eyes.” His hand brushed her hair off of her forehead and, lightly, she felt him press his lips above the arch of her brow. She opened her eyes then, blinking against the morning light which poured obtrusively in through the window, the curtains having been left undrawn the night before.

It was always such a welcomed sight - waking to find her husband by her side. No matter how lovely her dreams were, nothing could compare to waking to find him there.

Robb’s hair was tousled, as though he had not been awake for long either. But in his hand, in the hand which did not lie so comfortably against her cheek, she saw that he held something.

It was still early, she saw as she looked out the window. It was light, but barely. She might have scolded Robb for waking her, but she couldn’t, not when he looked at her like that.

Four moons had passed since they had buried their child and not once had Robb ever looked to her in blame or in anger. He had been unfailingly kind, his love for her never wavering. He had put her back together, and for that she loved him even more than she already did so.

With a small smile, she sat up slightly, her eyes fixed on Robb’s mouth as the corner of his lip twitched. Lifting her hand, she hooked it around the back of his neck and dragged his lips down to meet hers. She thought she heard him chuckle before their lips met. It was a slow, lazy kiss, one which she drew away from smiling.

“Now, tell me what it was you woke me for before I get cross.” She warned, though her expression was merely teasing. Robb rubbed the nape of his neck, a small, amused smile playing at his lips.

“A raven came this morning.” He said, looking down at the letter he held up for her to see. “It was from my mother.”

Her eyes widened a little in surprise.

“Really? And she’s -”

“Yes.” Robb said with a smile. “She’s coming home. She said she should be back with us within a fortnight.”

At once, like a tide, a rush of warmth crashed over her. All the pain seemed to simply… wash away. It didn’t matter anymore, none of it did. Lady Catelyn was coming home. She was coming _home,_ the woman who was almost a mother to her. She had been so long without her, and soon, she would have her once more. She knew, within herself, that whatever ache was left inside both her and Robb, Lady Catelyn would cure.

Robb ran his index finger along the curve of her lip, following the shape of the smile which was spreading across her features. “I’ve missed that smile, I’m glad to have it back.”

“I love you,” Found herself saying at once, reaching out to grasp the front of his loose nightshirt. She had not said those words in some time, and until that moment, she had not realised just how long it had been. Gripping him tightly, he who was her anchor, her love, her whole world, the words bubbled up from inside of her, and she was unable to stop them. “And I am so sorry if I do not tell you that enough. I -”

But she never did finish what she was saying before Robb’s lips crashed down upon hers. Her eyes fell shut at once, her lips parting easily, welcoming it. She gripped him tightly as his tongue slipped inside of her mouth.

Her head fell back onto the pillow as he rolled so that he hovered over her, his weight pressing her down amongst the soft furs.

Robb usually treated her as though she were something delicate, something made from glass, and each touch was never too rough or too demanding. And for that, she loved him. She knew from the way he held her hand and from the way he kissed her, that she would never be like her mother. He would never strike her. Her face would never know bruises, not by his hand.

That morning, he kissed her harder than he usually did, with unhindered want and need, and with his hands moving restlessly. Her lips stung and she could scarcely breathe but she did not mind. Oh, no. She did not mind.

As Robb’s teeth pulled slightly at her lower lip before he trailed kisses down her neck, she was unable to supress the moan which escaped her. It was not particularly ladylike of her, but she did not care. She had missed him.

 _Gods,_ she had missed _this._

But as Robb’s warm hand ran up her bare thigh, running higher and _higher,_ there came a knock at the door. It startled her. The sudden intrusion sent a jolt of surprise between them both. Robb’s movements stilled at once, a growl escaping his lips as he raised his mouth from the side of her neck. Her fingers loosened from his hair.

As another knock came, he drew away from her with an air of great reluctance. His weight shifted off of her, but his hand, she noticed, had not moved from where it sat at her thigh, burning, with a closeness that left her breathless and unashamedly wanting.

“Gods help whoever that is.” Robb muttered, glowering at he looked away from her to the door as yet another knock came, louder this time, more demanding. 

“Robb.” She breathed, and his eyes soon found hers again. It took him only a moment to understand. His eyes flickered to wear his hand lay and she watched, breathless, as a devious grin tugged at his lips.

He drew his hand away painfully slowly, his lips grazing her neck once more before he pulled away entirely. He smirked for a moment before he slipped quietly off of the bed.

She watched him move to the door with a small sigh, gathering herself slightly as she worked to catch her breath. But even as she slumped back against her pillow, she could not deny her disappointment.

Glancing over at the door, she watched as Robb opened the door partially and she thought she heard Theon’s voice coming through it. She sat up then, drawing the coverlet up to her chin.

They spoke for a long time, long enough for her to see her servants lingering by the other doorway, uneasy and unsure. She rose swiftly at the sight of them, smiling in a manner she hoped would reassure them.

She saw, as she glanced over her shoulder, that she had been right and that it was Theon who spoke with Robb. She had expected him to wink at the sight of her wearing nothing but her thin nightdress and smallclothes, but he didn’t. He didn’t seem to notice her at all. As he spoke to Robb, he wore a grave expression on his face, one she had never seen there before. For perhaps the first time in his life, Theon Greyjoy looked as though he were being serious.

The thought caught her off-guard. She fumbled a little, worried at once because Theon was _always_ smiling, even if it was at the wrong things – and now, he wasn’t smiling at all… The thought set her teeth on edge.

“My lady.” One of the young serving girls said, the one whose name she did not know yet, as she bowed her head a little to her. “Will you –”

“Yes, I shall dress now.” She answered at once, tearing her eyes off of the back of Robb’s neck, where soon, surely, she would burn a hole with the intensity of her stare. “Thank you.” The two serving girls nodded and silently moved off into the small side room where she would be able to dress privately. She thought it best. It would indeed put a damper on things if Theon were the one to see her naked that morning and not her husband.

She moved into the other room without allowing herself to look back. There she watched for several minutes, still stood in her night dress and drumming her fingers restlessly against her forearm, as the serving girls drew out dresses for her to wear. They looked at her for approval each time and she only offered a weak, noncommittal shrug of her shoulders. She was not sure if she were in the mood for bright colours. A grey dress, perhaps, would be more appropriate if she was to receive bad news. Or a light blue, even.

“Leave us.” She heard from behind her, and she did not need to turn, knowing at once who would be stood there. She watched her lady’s maids slip from the room, one of them giggling quietly behind her hand. Myrcella resisted the urge to roll her eyes before she turned to see Robb stood behind her.

Robb was leant against the wall, regarding her with a somewhat guarded expression. She frowned, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Robb shifted away from the wall and in two broad strides, was stood before her.

“What -?” She began, but was cut off by the curious way that he smiled. His large hands lifted to her face and very softly, the tips of his fingers smoothed away the pucker between her fair brows. She couldn’t help but laugh at that.

He leaned in then, and she seemed to all but melt at the feel of his lips at her throat and the tickling feel of his beard skimming along her collarbone. The chill in the small room seemed to all but fade away with the feel of Robb’s warm hands. One tangled in her long hair, sweeping the golden curls over her shoulder, while the other skimmed along the slope of her breasts and travelled painfully slowly, further and further south…

“ _Oh.”_

In response, with a low chuckle that wasn’t helping the sudden manner in which her knees wanted to give out, Robb found a soft place behind her ear that made her want to swear and curse in the most unladylike of fashions. But instead, stubbornly chewing down on her lower lip, she simply gripped him tighter and buried her face in the crook of his neck. The citrusy smell of his hair combined with the lingering smell of sweat and straw and lavender coming from his shirt was too much. She inhaled deeply, drunk on the smell.

 _Gods,_ she thought. She wasn’t going to last long.

Not long at all.

As she came apart by his hand, her head fell back and she released a cry which she was sure that the entire castle would hear. She didn’t care. _Let them listen,_ she thought. Her knees gave out quickly, betraying her, and as Robb caught her before she could fall, she saw the little marks she had left around his shoulders.

She laughed at the sight of them, and as she tugged his shirt over his broad shoulders, she pressed kisses to them.

“’Cella, your hands are cold.” Robb muttered as she slid her hands down his chest and she smiled astutely, knowing he would not complain, not once she was finished repaying the favour. And as her fingers tugged at the string laces of his smallclothes, she found – as usual – that she was right.

Eventually, they both ended on the floor in a tangle, sweaty and sated and thoroughly undressed. They had been lucky not to be disturbed. And she was glad of it. She didn’t think she could keep her lady’s maids if they knew _precisely_ what went on behind closed doors. Looking again at the marks she had left on him, she laughed and pressed her lips to them. 

“Myrcella…” She thought she heard Robb mumble. She glanced up at him, laughing once more at the lazy, reluctant way that he lifted his head off of the floor. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“I know.” She murmured, pressing a kiss to his bare chest. Was it too much to ask for this moment to simply last forever? She sighed inwardly knowing that it was. Asking for any moment of happiness to last was always too much to ask. _The Gods are cruel_ , someone had once said, _and that is why they are the Gods._ She chewed her lip, wishing that wasn’t so true. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“I think we’re about to go to war.” Robb responded after a long pause, his fingers running through her tangled hair. He somehow managed to keep his tone low and controlled, as though to make the words less alarming to her ears. But at once, she lifted her chin off of his chest. When their eyes met, there was no hint of teasing in his eyes, nor sleepiness and not even a ghost of the lust which had darkened those blue eyes only moments ago. All she saw was fear.

“Let us not think of it today, my love.” She found the strength to say, her fingers lacing through his. He squeezed her hand tightly and she laid her head back onto his chest. “Tomorrow… tomorrow we shall think of war.”

They lay there silently for some time, ignoring the world, even if they both knew the world would not ignore them. Eventually, the sound of Greywind howling and scratching at the door roused them, and, blushing, she lifted her head off of Robb’s chest and allowed for him to rise to his feet.

She rose reluctantly and moved over to where her dresses lay. And for a moment, as Robb laced his breeches, he paused. He looked at the dresses her servants had laid out for her and wordlessly, he shook his head.

“If we’re to have a day of peace… then wear red.” Robb grinned that devious smile of his, watching her lift her leg to pull one of her silk stockings in nothing but her small clothes. He moved to her side swiftly, taking the soft stocking from her as he dropped to a crouch. As he rolled the stocking up her calf, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “You know the one.”

Flushing pink, she remembered. A month or perhaps a little longer after their wedding, he’d all but ripped the dress off of her in his haste. They hadn’t even made it to the bed. He’d apologised later, only to have her tear his shirt off of his back in revenge. And when her lady’s maid had asked her what had caused the tears to the bodice and the sleeve, she had uncontrollably met Robb’s gaze and they had both dissolved into laughter.

 _Oh yes,_ she thought with a small smile, _I know the one._

When Robb’s head rose and he met her gaze, she knew – without even a hint of regret - it would be yet another morning where breakfast and lunch came and went without them.

 

\--

 

Bran was sat tall upon his new stead the day his mother returned home.

Myrcella did not think she had ever seen him look so happy.

His new horse was young and it was a clever little thing, there was no denying it. It had taken time and a fair amount of patience, but it had worked. The horse had been trained specifically for Bran, and only for Bran. No other was to touch the beast, she had heard muttered in the yard, no one but the little lord. It was not to know any orders besides Bran’s, responding to his voice and the movements of the reins and nothing more.

She had watched them one morning, intrigued. Robb had been perched on a rail beside her, gripping it so tightly that the skin pulled over his knuckles was white. With every movement, like a mother hen minding its chick, Robb had clucked and flinched and twitched, fearing a fall or worse. She had tried to comfort him at first, even if he was not entirely alone in his fears, telling him there was nothing to worry about, but her soft words did not good.

So instead, she had simply smiled to herself and looked ahead, watching Bran as his laughter filled the courtyard for the first time in far too long.

Lady Catelyn’s face was much like Robb’s had been that day when she rode through the gates. She stopped short at once, pulling back hard on the reins as her eyes landed the dark haired boy in the centre of the yard.

Myrcella was moving through the courtyard, smiling down at her mother’s newest letter when she saw it – the tell-tale catch of red in the early afternoon light. Throwing back her travelling hood at the sight of her son, Lady Catelyn’s fiery hair was what caught Myrcella’s eye.

Their eyes met at last and she smiled, smiling brightly in spite of the other woman’s expression. Lady Catelyn’s eyes were wide, searching for answers - answers Myrcella was not certain she would entirely be able to give.

“Mother!” Bran cried, “Mother!”

Lady Catelyn’s eyes tore away from hers and she looked back to her son, and, through watching him, her expression softened. Bran kept calling out to her as he flicked the reins and rode towards her, smiling as he had not done in so long. “Mother! Mother!”

“Bran!” Lady Catelyn exclaimed, dismounting her horse. “You’re riding! How -?”

“Mother! You’re back!” She felt for a moment, as he passed, Robb’s hand touch her hip. It was strange how powerful a single touch could be.

She felt the power of his touch for herself and she saw it before her – she saw Robb throw his arms around his mother and she watched her kiss his cheeks with tears in her eyes, as though it had been years since they had been parted and not mere months. Moments like that stung – the thought of motherhood and the power which it too had.

Sometimes, when she allowed herself to feel the pain of it, she imagined she saw in Robb’s arms a little girl with a head of Lannister golden curls and the Tully’s soft forget-me-not blue eyes, or perhaps a little boy, with dark hair, who would be their Ned. Robb would’ve been a good father. She could picture him, smiling, with bits of grey in his hair, as he told her fondly of their grandchildren, the future lords and ladies of Winterfell who ran through the snow with leaves in their hair as though the wild itself coursed through their veins. 

Gripping her elbows tightly, she forced herself to push such thoughts away. Motherhood was not accessible to all, as she had been told, and it would seem she was one of the ill-fated few. She had not had her moons blood in so long and Luwin doubted that she ever would. But… no, it did not matter, she told herself. Robb had brothers. They would have to be his heirs.

“ _Mother_!” Rickon streaked past her at that moment, his black wolf at his heels, barking wildly and causing such a stir that almost everyone in the courtyard had stopped to look and watch the little reunion. _If only it were all the Starks and not just one,_ she mused to herself with a small, quiet sigh.

Tucking her mother’s letter into the little pocket sewn into her skirts, she moved forward to greet Lady Catelyn. The woman looked up at her over Rickon’s head as she embraced him and she smiled. There was not as much warmth in her smile as there once had been, but she understood. Robb had explained it all to her – the truth they had gathered of Bran’s fall, Jon Arryn’s death, the dagger. Everything. And she was part Lannister. It was only right that she was met with some amount of mistrust, she supposed.

But in spite of her blood, she embraced Robb’s mother – her northern mother – gladly. There were no words to say how much she had missed her and her kind words. She had been without both her mothers for too long.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the wait, and I am sorry that this is a much shorter chapter than the others - except, it works as a kind of bridge, in a way. In case it wasn't clear, this is mainly where it skids off of course - Tyrion stayed in Winterfell longer and so he and Catelyn never met each other on the road and at that inn. I won't spoil anything, but this one little thing impacts the plot in a massive way. As always, thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

 

\- **Myrcella** - 

 

 

The morning was cold and light flakes of summer snows fell from the lightly clouded sky. The snowflakes slowly fell only to melt at once in the morning sun. There were little flakes of snow caught in Robb’s hair as he turned away from his mock fray and waving to her as Theon smacked him around the back with a tourney sword. She heard him cursed and she looked down at her hands, smirking.

“Isn’t he ever so handsome?” Beth Cassel whispered, smiling teasingly when Myrcella shot her a sideward glance. Beth was Ser Rodrik's daughter and she was Myrcella's newest friend, one who had been a better friend to her in only several months than any of her friends in King’s Landing had ever been. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. We’re all thinking it.”

Myrcella raised one of her fair brows and then rolled her eyes as her ladies erupted in giggles, all blushing bright red when they saw that Robb had tossed away histourney sword and was jogging towards them. He left Theon behind him in the yard, laughing. 

“Morning, ladies.” Robb called on his approach, grinning good-naturedly. His eyes passed over her ladies and finally rested upon her, his expression was amused but the look in his eye – that look was just for her. When he looked at her like that and grinned like that, her cheeks burned a little and her ladies giggled behind their hands.

“Bran longs to go for a ride. Would you care to join us?” Robb asked, blinking against the low morning sun. He looked so handsome, with the sun catching in his hair, drawing out the auburn tones. She nodded with a small smile and he offered her his hand. Taking his hand, she rose from the bench where she had been sitting with her ladies for most of the morning, idly discussing dresses and flowers and all the pretty things she spoke of to distract herself. She found that when Robb was in the training yard, practicing with his sword, it was easier to look away than to watch, her mind imagining what else his sword might hit once the straw dummy was long away.

“I did promise Theon a hunt, though I may have told Bran he could come along as well - I do not know if it would be the best of hunts with him along.” Robb said conversationally, and ahead, she could see Bran along already sat atop his horse with a small sword at his hip and Theon stood next to him with his bow in his hands. She stopped short at the sight and inadvertently wondered what her mother would say if she knew her daughter had unintentionally been invited to a hunting party.

“Hunting? No, thank you.” She found herself muttering, though her tone was edged with amusement. Robb glanced at her with raised eyebrows and she rolled her eyes. She had never truly understood the delight men such as her father received from a day of hunting, returning home with a dead beast slung over the back of his horse, destined to be a meal or to become a trophy on the wall. Her mother had said only simple minds drew pleasure from such things, and Myrcella had always found herself inclined to agree with her. “I would rather spend the day embroidering with my ladies than be privy to your conversations about Ros – and neither should Bran, for that matter.”

“Come on, ‘Cella. You might enjoy yourself for once.” Theon drawled in a tone which was sufficiently annoying as he approached, exchanging a smirk with Robb as he stopped in front of her. She narrowed her eyes, however it did nothing but draw laughter from both him and Robb. “You’ll never know if you like killing things until you’ve tried it.”

“That’s enough.” Robb warned, though he was grinning all the same.

Her beautiful dapple grey mare, who she had not ridden in so long, was brought out to her soon after, disbanding her mild annoyance over Theon and Robb’s exchanged smirks. And though a small part of her wished she had changed her gown to something less bothersome, she mounted her horse quickly, eager to escape the castle walls.

She rode beside Bran, falling behind Robb and Theon as they moved on ahead of them. As they rode through the market square, slowly as they were made to navigate around the people milling in the square, she saw that beside her, Bran was grinning from ear to ear. He even laughed, too. That alone could make up for anything – even the incessant talk of Ros or the plentiful amounts of kitchen maids who Theon somehow ended up rolling about in the hay with.

As if reading her thoughts or sensing that she had somehow forgotten her near constant exasperation with him, she heard Theon call out to a girl stood beneath the sign of the Smoking Log. She supposed that she was one of the serving girls; they were the sort Theon most preferred. "Sweet Kyra," She heard him laugh, "She squirms like a weasel in bed, but say a word to her on the street, and she blushes pink as a maid. Did I ever tell you about the night that she and Bessa-"

"Not where my brother can hear, Theon," Robb warned, casting first a glance to Bran and then over his shoulder at her. He grinned when he caught her eye. “Or my lady.”

They left the confines of the castle behind them soon after, galloping once they reached the hills. She was better at riding than she once had been, having been taught almost every day for several months to keep her mind off of her lost child - though that did little to stop both Bran and Robb as they looked back every now and then to make sure she was keeping up with them as they entered the woods.

They slowed, slowing right down to a walk as they navigated through the trees. Myrcella unconsciously glanced around her at the others every few minutes, copying whatever she saw Robb or Bran or Theon doing.

As they neared a vast clearing, where she could hear a stream or a river flowing somewhere in the near distance, they quickened their pace and the two direwolves bounded ahead in the search for prey.

“Not too fast!” She heard Robb exclaim as Bran rode ahead, his laughter drowning out all else. It had been too long since he had laughed like that. It reminded her of how he had been before his fall, of when she could ride with him and Rickon and they would tease her for always fumbling with her reins.

_Keep up, ‘Cella, keep up!_

“I think they’ve found something!” Theon yelled, pointing to where the wolves had gone, lost within the shadows of the trees. His bow had been slung over his back a moment ago and it was in his hands. He had an arrow waiting already, waiting to take down its first kill. She looked away, seeking out Bran’s sunny smile instead.

“Where’s he gone?” Robb laughed. She cast a glance around them to see that Bran had somehow disappeared off, no doubt spurring his horse deeper into the woods. She caught the brief flash of Robb’s grin before he began to call out to his brother and Theon yelled to one of the guardsmen about a deer.

_They’ll never catch anything if they keep yelling like a bunch of wildlings,_ she thought to herself with a smile.

She followed after Robb as he moved through the trees, pushing on into the woods as Theon and one of the guardsmen rode another way in pursuit of the illusive game. She could hear them yelling and as they caught sight of Bran and Dancer, she thought heard Theon call out that he won, that he had made the first kill.

“Don’t disappear like that!” Robb exclaimed as he rode close to Bran, who had stopped before the stream. It took only a beat, though, before the scolding tone was dropped and concern took its place. “Are you alright?”

Bran nodded, though he looked a little pale.

“I’m a bit cold.” He said.

“It’s alright; we can back if you like.” A howl cut through the trees, lifting the fair hairs on her arms. The lone cry was shortly followed by another. Robb and Bran looked at each other, understanding. “They've made a kill; I'd best go and bring them back. Wait here with Myrcella. Theon and the others should be along shortly.”

Bran protested, but Robb shook his head firmly. “I’ll find them faster by myself. You’ll be alright. I’ll be back before you know it.”

She thought she caught a glimpse of his smile before his heels dug into his gelding’s side and he disappeared into the trees in search of the two direwolves. Bran stared after him, worry clouding his features. Maester Luwin had warned them all about overexerting him, speaking in both great and terrible detail over the possibility of saddle sores and exhausting him. She worried at once, fearing both what could happen to him and what Lady Catelyn would say if anything did.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Bran?” She asked, leaning over the small space between them to touch his arm. His arm was so cold, the light snow soaking through both his gloves and his sleeves. “Do you need me to -?”

A rustle of leaves from somewhere near them distracted her, cutting her question short. Hearing footsteps which were followed by voices, they both looked up expecting to see Theon or the two guardsmen who had accompanied them. Instead, they were met with strangers. There were four of them, three men and a woman, stepping out onto the bank of the stream. They were dressed so raggedly, they couldn’t possibly be from Winterfell or from its surrounding farms. There was only one thing they could be.

“Robb?” Bran called, but no, oh no, it was not Robb. Robb had gone to find the wolves. “What –?”

They had to be wildlings.

_Oh no,_ she thought, _oh no, oh no, oh no._

All they had was the little sword swinging at Bran’s hip. It had been a present from Ser Rodrik on his return, but wielded by either her or Bran, she feared that it would barely leave a mark.  

The wildlings skulked close, stalking them like prey. There was something strange in the way they moved and watched them. They were looking at all the things they could steal, she feared. They were looking at the shiny pin Bran wore and his fine coat. She worried her lower lip with her teeth, knowing they were looking at her necklace too; the beautiful necklace which had once belonged to her grandmother.

“All alone, are you?” A woman leered. She stalked close – much too close – and stopped beside Bran. She grabbed at Dancer’s reins, tugging harshly to force Bran’s horse to stand still. “All alone in the deep, dark woods?”

“We’re not alone.” Myrcella said unintentionally, her tone far too haughty for such a situation. She flinched as one of the male wildlings stalked close, eyes fixed on the necklace which fell to the neckline of her dress and the tops of her breasts. “My husband rode off just a moment ago.”

“And our guard will be here shortly.” Bran added, his wide, worried eyes flickering to hers. Though they were close in age, she suddenly saw Robb’s brother as so much younger than herself and someone whom she had to safeguard. She saw him as a frightened young boy - a boy she loved just as much as she loved her own brother, and a boy who she would do anything to protect. She pressed her lips together, trying – and desperately failing – to put a brave face on for him. If she could at least get them to leave Bran be, then she would do what they wished. As long as Bran was safe, she didn’t care what came of her.

“I don’t see ‘im. Got him hidden under your dress, girl?” The smaller of the male wildlings called out. She felt someone’s hand touch her ankle and she gasped in surprise. She jerked, lurching uneasily in her saddle, as her eyes met those of the biggest of the three male wildlings. He grabbed the reins from her and ran his hand up her leg, trying to spark a reaction. She grimaced and looked back to Bran, watching as the other wildlings circled him, sneering unkindly.

“A guard, eh? And what would they be guarding, my little lord? Is that a silver pin I see there on your cloak?”

“That’s a pretty necklace.” The woman said, pointing. Myrcella clutched at it instinctively. _No, no, no, no._ She did not know if she could bear to be parted with it. Her mother had given it on her twelfth name day. She had fixed it around her neck and told her that it was one of the few treasures she had left of her own mother. For years she had wanted to wear it when she visited her grandfather at Casterly Rock, childishly wanting to see if he would notice, to see if it would please him, but she had never had the chance.

“Aye,” the man closest to Bran said. “We’ll be taking the pretty necklace and the pin. The horses too.”

Bran’s worried eyes returned to hers. She knew exactly what he was thinking. He wouldn’t be able to get down without her help and she wouldn’t be able to carry him, not very far, at least. “Get down. Be quick about it!”

“Leave him alone!” She all but screeched. “Please - you may have the necklace and the pin, but leave him be. He needs his horse.”

“We’ll be taking _both_ the horses.”

The wildling pulled at Bran’s arm, trying to pull him from the horse. Bran cried out, ripping his arm away from him. As he jerked away, her eyes caught a glint of silver and honed in at once to the sword at his hip. If she could get it from him and make enough of a show and dance, then perhaps it would give him time to get away… or to get help, at least. Robb or Theon and the guardsmen could not be too far away…

“Seven Hells! If you want the damn horses, you can have the damn horses.” She found herself saying, her tone so venomous she scarcely recognised it. All she could hope for was that, if threatened by Bran’s sword, they would take what they wanted and would go. It was a fool’s hope, but she clung to it, knowing it was her only chance if Bran was unable to get away. “But please, my – my brother cannot give you his horse without my help. He cannot use his legs -”

As she spoke, one of the wildings pulled at Bran’s cloak, lifting it to expose the straps about his legs. He stared at the saddle uncertainly, as though he somehow did not understand. He looked up to exchange a bewildered expression with the larger male wildling.

“What’s wrong with you, you some kind of cripple?”

Knowing that Bran would protest, she caught his eye and shook her head. She heard the wildlings muttering to themselves and so, hastily dismounting, she moved around her horse to Bran’s side. The wildling woman shifted closer then, moving so that she blocked her path. Myrcella lifted her chin, telling herself she was not afraid - but her pitiful comforts did nothing to stop her from crying out when the woman ripped her necklace from around her throat. She winced, touching the back of her neck for a moment, feeling the sting of a small cut.

“Now – give us the pin, little lad.” The woman darted away, scurrying back around the side of Bran’s horse. Myrcella hurried to him, pressing her finger to her lips when she saw him look at her questioningly. She pushed up his cloak and worked on the buckle of the first strap, making a show of it while she watched from the corner of her eye, waiting for the moment the male wildling looked away.

They all had moved around the other side, save the larger wildling who lingered near. She wondered what he wanted when he watched her, what else she had to give. When her eyes slid to his and saw that he watched her closely still, she decided she did not want to know the answer to her question. Looking away, she found that the other three wildings were looking at her grandmother’s necklace, their grubby hands touching the sapphires, wondering aloud if they were real. She wanted to curse at them, to tell them what woe would come of them if they ever stepped foot in the Westerlands, but she stayed silent for Bran’s sake.

The large wildling looked away, distracted by the commotion. He was looking at her necklace too, his eyes big and greedy.

Sensing that this was her moment, if any, she seized it. She ran her hand up beneath Bran’s cloak and tore the small sword from its sheath. She whirled around, holding out Bran’s sword as she had seen Robb hold out his in the training yard. The big male wilding turned back to her, looking at her in momentary incomprehension as she pointed the tip of the sword to the his throat.

“Let the boy go. You can have whatever you like. _Just let him go_.” She emphasised each one of her last words by pressing the sword a little bit closer to him, biting a little into to his flesh.  She remembered how Arya and Bran and little Rickon had all laughed at her whenever she had played with a tourney sword, always telling her she wasn’t holding it right or that she looked silly. She hoped now, for both their sakes, that she looked as though she knew what she was doing.

“A little lady and a cripple. It’s like something from one of your songs.” The wildling woman jeered, peering at her from beneath the horse’s neck. As the wildling woman laughed, Myrcella’s hand began to shake, the sword quivering as the very tip pressed into his throat. The wildling stepped closer then as if daring her to do something, the blade drawing a bead of blood.

“Looks like the little lady don’t know what to do with her sword. No one ever tell you how to use it?” The other, smaller wildling said, moving around the horse, moving out of view. She thought of Arya, inexplicably - grabbling desperately for something to give her hope, and how she had been just as good with the practice swords as her younger brothers. If Arya could do it, then why couldn’t she?

“How about we show her?” The smaller wildling mocked, and she looked up – distracted for but a second – as she heard Bran whimper.

That second was all it seemed to take. She thought she heard the cutting of Bran’s saddle straps and then, as another wildling grabbed her from behind, the large male wildling forced the sword from her grip. Crying out, she squirmed and struggled and fought to escape the vice like grip the wilding’s arms had around her waist. She threw back her arm, her elbow knocking hard against his mouth and teeth. Cursing loudly, the wildling’s arms fell away. She dropped to her knees to reach for the fallen sword, but the other wilding’s hands caught her by her hair, pulling hard at it, dragging her upwards.

Myrcella screamed.

“Stop!” Bran yelled, pushing away the wildling’s hands as they cut at his straps. "I'm Brandon Stark of Winterfell. You better let go of her, or I'll see you all dead!"

Myrcella struggled, clawing at the hands which pulled at her long hair. When the wildling’s hands twiste, she let loose another scream, knowing it was truly their last chance at alerting the others. She could hear Bran shouting as the wildling dragged her back against him and clamped his hand hard over her mouth.

She could hear the others arguing, arguing about killing Bran, about killing her, about White Walkers and so many other things she did not understand, but there was only one voice which she knew enough to pick up through all of the madness.

“Drop the knife!” She heard Robb yell on his approach. Her eyes flew open, searching for him. He stepped out alone onto the river bank, eyes cold and angry. “Let them go, and I’ll let you live.”

The sound of his sword being drawn from its sheath was like music to her ears. How strange it was as when only a few hours before, she had looked upon him training and felt only dread. With a muttered curse, the wilding let go of her hair and held up his hands in apparent surrender, but then with his knee, he knocked her to the ground. She landed hard, but landed within reach of Bran’s sword.

As she crawled forward, her hand reaching for the sword, she looked up as the smaller male wilding ran at Robb with an axe. Her eyes squeezed closed as the axe sailed towards Robb’s chest, but then they flew open again when she heard the sound of his sword blocking the blow and saw the wildling stagger backwards. She breathed a breath of relief and grabbed the blade.

Axe met blade again and again, the steel singing until, suddenly, Robb’s blade tore at the wilding’s throat. Blood spurted from the wound like a fount, the man making a terrible gurgling sound before he fell, collapsing to the forest floor.

She pushed herself to her feet, the sound still echoing in her ears, and stumbled over her skirts as she hurried to Bran’s side. Her fingers, hurried and panicked, did not seem to know how to work the buckles as she tried to refasten them and she swore again and again before, finally, giving up, she grabbed at the reins and pulled the horse after her as she attempted to run for the safety of the trees. But the big wilding – Stiv, she thought his name was – caught her arm and forced her backwards.

“Bran!” She cried out as she struggled free from the wilding’s grasp. “Just go! Go find the others!”

She turned to face Stiv as Bran urged his startled horse forward. She slashed at the wildling’s hands with the blade before he struck a hard blow to her temple with the pommel of his sword. She heard Robb call out her name before she fell, thoughher eyes were on Bran, watching in despair as the wildling cut him loose from his saddle and dragged him to the ground.

“Robb!” Bran called as he squirmed, fighting with all he had against the wildling who was more than two times the size of him. “Robb!”

“Shut up!” Roughly, the wildling dragged Bran into the clearing, dragging him further and further away from her. He hoisted Bran up onto his knees, holding him there with a knife at his throat. Ignoring the ringing in her ears, Myrcella lightly pressed her knuckles to where he had struck her, her fingers drawing away wet and bloody. “Drop the blade!”

Robb had been fighting the wildling woman by the stream, knocking well matched blows with her. Now he had her forced down on her knees, her weapon lying out of reach. He had his bloodstained sword raised to make a final blow, but when he saw Bran, his motions stilled. The fire and the rage in his eyes seemed to die when he saw Bran. And as he slowly lowered his arm, moving to put his sword on the ground, his eyes never left his brother for a single second.

“No!” Bran cried, squirming. “Don’t!”

“You too.” He spat, jerking his chin towards her. She looked down at her hand, realising that she was still holding Bran’s sword and that the blade was bloody. “Do it! Or I’ll cut his throat!”

As both she and Robb slowly dropped their weapons, the wildling suddenly gasped. His eyes widened and he released a choked, strangled sound as an arrow head spurted out from his chest - right where his heart would be. He was dead at once, the knife falling away from Bran’s throat as he collapsed heavily to the floor. She looked behind them, seeing that the two guardsmen were hurrying towards them and the two direwolves with bloody snouts ran ahead of them. Theon, she saw, was stood closer, standing near a tree with his bow still raised. After a moment, he stalked towards them, smiling a little, though she did not know why.

“My lady!” One of the guardsmen called out as he ran to her. He came to a skipping stop before her, bending at once to hurriedly drag her to her feet. “You must see Maester Luwin at once, you’re –”

“It’s nothing.” She tried for a smile but she did not do very well. She looked around the guard, watching Robb as he strode forward and crouched down before Bran. He paused before he lifted Bran off of the floor, his hands hovering above the cut on Bran’s leg. Though she knew he would not be able to feel it, the sight of it and all the blood, returned the anger to her.

And in that, she was not alone.

“Tough little lad,” Theon called out as Robb scooped Bran up in his arms. “In the Iron Islands, you’re not a man until you’ve killed your first enemy." He grinned broadly and stepped over Stiv's corpse. "Well done.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Robb yelled, a shadow sliding across his features. He looked down at the bodies surrounding them, his eyes full of anger and disblief. Theon’s wide grin faltered and slipped from his lips. “What if you’d missed?”

“He would’ve killed you! He would’ve cut Bran’s throat and done Gods know what to Myrcella! You know that!” Theon shot back, thrusting his hand out first to Bran and then towards her, forcing them all in that instant to imagine. Robb’s eyes flashed to hers for a moment, but she could not bring herself to look at him.

“You don’t have the right -”

“To what? Save your brother’s life? It was the only thing to do, so I did it!” Theon’s words seemed to knock the rage right out of Robb, the shadow passing from his features. Robb’s eyes flickered then to the wildling woman, his lips pressing into a tight line.

“What about her?” He asked, looking down at the woman. The wildling woman, crawling at Robb’s knees, pleaded for her life. She promised them service, loyalty, fealty, and each word felt only to her like a lie. She could not see the desperation upon the woman’s pale, dirty face, not when stuffed within a pocket sewn into the rags she wore, was her grandmother’s necklace.

As Robb gave the wilding woman her life, Myrcella stalked forwards. She felt icy fingers clench around her heart, hardening her to the woman’s pleas. Suddenly, she did not feel so merciful. Her shoulder brushed against Theon’s as she passed, privately pleased to see that he still raised his bow to the woman, and bent wordlessly to snatch back what was hers. She dragged the necklace from the woman’s pocket and clutched it to her heart, her green eyes narrowing as she looked down at the woman, wondering what they would do with her. Would they have her serve them? Would they have her clean their halls? Would they invite her into their castle knowing, if it had come down to it, she might have killed Bran or any one of them?

With her anger slowly lessening, replacing itself with aftershocks of terror, she turned away from the woman. She manoeuvred around the bodies, stumbling over her skirts to be where Robb was stood with Bran. She touched Bran’s cheek with the backs of her fingers and brushed away a little smudge of dirt she found there.

“Are you alright?” She asked softly, and Bran nodded quickly. Far too quickly for him to be telling any sort of truth. She pressed her lips together, eyes trailing down his coat to see that there were stains of the wildling’s blood on him. He offered her a small, brief smile and she forced herself to return it. But still, fixed within her as though it would never go, she could feel the panic coiled in her chest as she looked up to meet Robb’s gaze, his expression mirroring her own.

“I can take him back to the castle, my lord.” One of the guardsmen called. “Maester Luwin has already been alerted.”

And though neither Robb nor Bran seemed to want to be parted with one and another, Robb nodded after a moment of hesitation. He smiled bravely for his brother, whispering that he would not be far, and that everything would be alright. As he passed his brother into the guard’s arms, he watched with his brows drawn tightly together, watching as the guard carried him up the small hill and was at once, gone. Only when his brother was out of sight did Robb’s steadfast strength seem to falter.

Expelling a sharp, ragged breath, Robb closed the space between them at once and with arms like iron, he crushed her to him. She breathed his name, her voice catching and feebly breaking as all the air was forced out of her body. She closed her eyes, the panic slowly loosening its hold on her as she felt herself begin to calm. Robb’s arms were safe, Robb’s arms were home.

“What were you thinking? They could’ve killed you, Myrcella!” He exclaimed as he took a step away from her, catching her face in his hands as the horror seemed to set back in. Wide and filled with panic, his eyes darted about her face, from her parted lips to the mud drying at her jaw, resting longest at the blood matting her hair to her forehead. His eyes squeezed closed for a moment and he brushed his lips against her unbloodied temple. “They could have killed you!”

“I –”

“I knew something was wrong, but I told myself it was nothing. Then I heard you scream -” Robb whispered urgently against her brow, hands slipping away to clutch at her shoulders. He was shaking; he was shaking even more than she was. Her hands, which had been caught between them, rose to touch between his brows, smoothing away the crease she found there.

“Not here.” She begged. She could no longer stand the smell and the sight and the presence of so much death.  “Not here.”

Reaching out, she grasped his blood-spattered sword hand and threaded her fingers through his. As she began to walk away, with no intent on looking back, he held her hand so tightly it began to hurt.

They did not speak, not for a long time, not until they were long away from the woods and back to where nothing could ever hurt them.

 

 

_-_ _-_

 

Panic clutched at her heart, waking her at once.

Her eyes flew open with a sharp gasp and she sat up, her knees drawing to her chest as she fought for breath. She had dreamed of her mother. She had dreamed a nightmarish version of her which, lapsing in with the sound of the arrow piercing the wildling’s heart, had thrust her from her deep sleep, leaving her trembling and close to sobbing.

_Hold on to what you love,_ her mother had said, _it’ll be gone before you know it._

Her thoughts flashed back to that night, thinking of Lady Catelyn’s pinched expression, of Robb’s hand clutching hers ever beneath the table and the cut on Bran’s leg which had had to be sewn back together to stop the blood from flowing. _It’s just a scratch, but it’s a nasty one,_ the Maester had said. Lady Catelyn’s eyes had flashed to Robb’s, something of a small betrayal lingering there, and then she had turned away, turning back to her young son who swore he was alright. Rickon had stood in the doorway, asking what was wrong, and no one had thought to answer him until it was too late and he was gone.

Her dream played back to her as she shivered, the cold raising the fair arms on her arms. She had been in the gardens of the Red Keep one moment, sitting in the sun with Joffrey when they were both very young, and the next she was with her mother, only her mother had not been her mother. Her golden hair was gone, her pretty eyes turned black and cold. She had spoken in whispers, whispers which frightened her even when she was awake and free from her nightmare.

But even as she sat awake, shaken still from her dream, she could not help but think that perhaps the monstrous version of her mother was right. Nothing ever truly lasted. And she could feel it like a constant presence, dread breathing down the back of her neck and whispering terrible thoughts into her ear when she was alone.   _Enjoy it while you can,_ that voice whispered over and over,  _enjoy it before it's gone._ It was all slipping from her grasp, falling further and further away from her. She knew there was nothing she could do, but still she tried to hold on, clinging to what she was soon to lose.

Lady Catelyn wanted House Lannister to answer their crimes and in the wake of her return, all those around her spoke of war as if it were some little matter and as though they did not know how it tore at her heart. She could not speak of her fears, so she hoarded them to herself like cruel, unwanted treasures. In this game, she was going to lose. And that she could not speak of. On either side, she was going to lose one way or another. If she did not lose her mother and her brother and her father, she would lose her Northern family.

But, she despaired with a heavy heart, she had lost her child; she would not lose Robb too.

“Myrcella…” Robb murmured, the tips of his fingers ghosted across the small of her back. “You’re thinking too much.”

She closed her eyes, forcing away her tears.

“It’s nothing. I’m – I’m merely thinking of that tear you made in my dress.” Her lie earned her a quiet chuckle from Robb, who no doubt remembered the incident with the green dress very well. She, herself, could only dwell on the memory for a brief moment before her troubles came rushing back to her. Her troubles never left her alone for long.

“Truly, what’s wrong?" He asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What are you thinking about?” 

“What do you think?” She replied wearily, suddenly feeling very tired. She heard the words of House Stark whispered in her ears.  _Winter is coming._ And what would winter bring her? What came of summer children when the warmth was gone? Myrcella sighed despairingly. She had not been sleeping; she could not escape from the gathering clouds within herself, not when Robb was not there to chase them away. “I cannot lose you, Robb, not after…” She could not say it. She could not say the words.  _Not after I killed our son._  “I could not bear it.”

“Myrcella –”

She shook her head, her golden curls flying wildly about her face.

“I do not know if I would survive it.”

“What happened in the woods –”

“Don’t.” She said, her eyes flashing to his. “I can’t talk about it. I won’t.”

She couldn’t. She could not bear to remember it. Her arms were littered with dark bruises and her temple still throbbed, even after the wound was long since treated. The Maester had offered her dreamwine to help her sleep, but she had turned it down. She almost wished she hadn’t, thinking back. Hearing Robb sigh, she wished she had not spoken. She wished he had not been disturbed and was still asleep. It was easier to worry when she was alone in it, it allowed for her to be afraid without having to worry about how her fears were affecting someone else.

She buried her head in her hands, fighting off the stinging threat of tears. She did not wish to be comforted, to be fooled with soft and pretty words and be told that all would be well. She expected that of him, it was what they did for one another. They gave each other hope, even if they both knew how much they were without it. And she waited for those words, ones which she would reject, but they did not come. Rather, Robb sat up and she felt his fingers cart through her hair before he spoke.

“There is only one place where I shall die and that is here, beside you.”

“You cannot know that -” She tried to protest, but this time, it was Robb who shook his head. The fixed and stubborn determination on his face spoke so much of his Stark blood that it drowned out his Tully features.

“No other place would ever do.” As he spoke, he reached out and clasped her hand tightly, holding her steady, forcing her to listen. “Not when I could be with you, when we have seen winters come and go and we are as old as Old Nan.”

_Surrounded by our children and their children._

The thought stung, but it was like the prick of a thorn - once the pain was gone, it didn’t really matter. It only lasted for but a moment.

“Nothing will come between us.” He sounded so sincere that she almost fell into the trap of believing him. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t hide from the bad things around her as she once had. She needed to face them. She had to know what was coming for her so she knew how to fight it. With a frustrated sigh, Myrcella tugged her hand out of Robb’s and stared stubbornly down at her lap.

“I was so afraid. I saw – I saw him run at you with an axe and I thought -” She could not finish the thought. She squeezed her eyes closed. No, she could not think of it. “We can never know what will come of us. You could fall from your horse tomorrow and be lost to me forever. You might get the war you all want so much and -”

“No one _wants_ a war,” He said, that familiar crease forming between his drawn brows. “someone poisoned the Hand of the King and tried to kill my brother twice over. We cannot let that go unpunished, we cannot -”

Myrcella sighed, lighting pressing her fingers to Robb’s lips.

“I know.” She murmured. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m just afraid, is all. Afraid that I will lose you - afraid that you will start to see me as all the rest will see me. I have the blood of your enemy, and that is how your men will always see me.”

She could picture it - a wall full of Lannister heads and an empty spike, just waiting for hers to join them. She shuddered at the thought.

“You are not the enemy.” Robb said. “You are my wife.”

Blinking away her tears, Myrcella had to look back. He was looking at her in a way which made her no longer know why she was afraid. She wasn’t Myrcella Baratheon anymore, she told herself. She was Myrcella Stark. And she too could be strong. She could be strong like Robb.

Looking at him, she suddenly could not bear the distance between them anymore. She needed him. She needed him as she had in the woods, to save her, to protect her, to chase away those which would harm her. And her thoughts – they were the evil now. She needed him to save her, as knights did in songs, so she could be free. She was so close to tears, but she forced them away. She had to force them away. She moved hurriedly, desperately, clumsily twisting and falling upon him, her hands, her mouth, all searching for the only certainty they had left.

Their lips met frantically, their hands desperate and hurried, moving as if they had not had each other so many times before, and as though the thin clothes between them were their only qualms in the world. She moaned at the slight tug of his teeth catching her lip and she let her head fall back, breathless. His lips ran down her jaw to the exposed nape of her neck as his long fingers slid through her hair.

She felt his hand grip her hip as she leaned over him, fingers feeling searing hot against her bare skin. As she quietly moaned, he sat up with her, his lips still pressed to the join of her neck and shoulder. She lifted his night shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He did the same, frantic fingers fumbling with the nightgown she wished her ladies would not subject her to wear each night. She felt herself release a shaky laugh as she heard, rather than felt, the dress tear a little.  

Robb’s hands caught her face, steering her to look at him. The laughter slipped from her lips as he pressed a kiss to them and, leaning his forehead against hers, she felt him sigh against her.

“You are my wife.” He repeated. “I am yours, and you are mine.”

She needed to forget; to simply exist in a world where they were all there was, for a single moment. She opened her mouth to speak, to echo his words back to him, but then his hips shifted beneath her and words failed her. She gasped and her fingers tightened in his hair, forcing his lips back to hers. A shot of heat pulsed through her and she soon forgot why her head ached and why her arm was near black with bruises.

His hands moved to her nightgown once more and clumsy fingers fumbled with its small buttons. She caught a flash of his grin as his palm ghosted over her breast.  _Hurry,_ she thought to herself, unaware that she had breathed the word aloud until, with a low grumbling sound, he pulled at the front of the nightgown impatiently. The thin material gave way easily, tearing.

Robb paused.

He opened his mouth to apologise, as he always did whenever her dresses fell victim to his eagerness, and she silenced him by returning her lips to his. She felt the harsh sting of tears, and needed  _this_ to chase them away.

As she rolled her hips impatiently, she heard Robb groan.

Her name was on his lips – always there, caught on the tip of his tongue – as she slipped her hand between them and guided him into her. With a sharp intake of breath, he drew her back to him, their lips meeting frantically as one hand lingered at her thigh and the other was lost within her long hair. As they began to move together, breathless, she thought she heard him groan her name.

Neither of them lasted long, both were too frantic, too impatient, too hungry. She found her release first, hard and fast and too breathless to cry out, and he followed her soon after. She fell against him, their hammering hearts following the same frantic rhyme.

_Yes,_ she thought,  _Robb was right._

_I am yours, and you are mine._

 

\- **Robb** -

  

 

_Tommen is very anxious to see you, Myrcella._

_Seeing you would be a remedy, I am sure._

Sifting through the crumbled letters she had left on her dresser, he understood now why Myrcella had been so troubled. He had thought it was because of the wildlings, of the day she refused to speak of, but he had been wrong.

Her mother wanted her to choose a side, that she made very clear in her letters. By asking her to visit, now, as she never had before, she was trying to force Myrcella’s hand. She was using Tommen as a tool to bring Myrcella back to her, and in effect, to her side. Robb could not say which side his wife would choose and he wished, with every fibre of his being, that she did not have to make the choice, but he was no fool.

Just as it was with winter, no one wished for war, but it was coming.

And it would come for them all.

_He misses you dearly._

_Will you come home to him, Myrcella?_

 

_\--_

He watched Myrcella all throughout dinner, her mother’s letters plaguing him. The hall was full of noise and laughter. Singer’s shouted their songs in merriment and for a moment, it was as though his father and Jon were still there and Arya was about to cause some scene with Sansa. He had looked for his uncle in vain, knowing already that he would not be there. Visiting bannermen danced with their wenches and their wives, clapping their hands to the singer’s songs, all the while his wife sat by his side, silent.

He was reminded, in an instant, of their wedding feast.

All night, Myrcella had played her part as his dutiful wife; she had greeted their guests with all the charm expected of a Southron princess and with the kind pleasantries of their Northern lady. She wore a pretty blue dress that matched the sapphire necklace she had had repaired the moment they had returned from the woods, and when she danced with the visiting lord, he saw that there were jewels laced into her long hair. When she smiled, she smiled in the same way that she wore her dresses and her jewels. She did not smile from joy, but to be pretty, to be pleasing, and to be the woman all seemed to expect her to be.

There was no doubt, in both her mind, her graces and her beauty, that she was all a lord or any man could want in a wife, yet when she felt that she was free of others’ gazes, she wilted like a flower lost within the summer snow. He had found himself watching her all evening, knowing within his heart what must be done and wishing that there was some other way.

She would never be happy, he was forced to realise, not when she knew her brother was not safe.

 

 

\--

 

 

Grey Wind had been restless that night. The direwolf had howled and paced, making strange strained sounds which he had at first had confused with Luwin’s heavy sighs. Myrcella had assured him that it was nothing, but Robb was not convinced… something was wrong. He had wanted to speak to his brothers about it, but Rickon was too little and Bran too tired. He had wished, as he had watched his direwolf howl at the ceiling, that Jon was with him, that he had never gone, that he had not taken the Black. It was as if the wolves knew something. Summer had howled that night. Shaggy, too. It was as if they knew something. Robb just didn’t know what. 

And now the direwolves filled his dreams. He felt the cool air as if he were not in his bed, before a fire and beside his wife, but deep within the godswood. He wasn’t cold, but he shuddered all the same. He did not know what it was he dreamed of, only that he  _felt_ something, a tether of sorts, pulling him where he did not know.

_Almost,_ he thought,  _almost…_

A sound startled him. The dream faded. Robb woke up.

Dragged from his dream, he woke with a start.

Something cold touched his arm. He jerked away with a sharp intake of breath, flinching. His heart raced wildly until he looked and saw that it was Myrcella. Myrcella’s small hand gingerly touched his forearm and his eyes rose to see that she was sat up, her green eyes worried.

“What is it?” He asked, sitting up. His gaze at once jumped about the room, looking for danger. Looking for whatever it was he had sensed upon waking from his dream. Only… it didn’t feel like a dream.

“You were shouting.” Myrcella said, sounding calm in spite of her uneasy expression. She touched his arm again, her cold fingers running lightly up to his shoulder. “Shouting for your father, for Bran, for Grey Wind…”

Robb frowned. He stared down at his own hands, confounded, until Myrcella pressed her startlingly cold fingers to his forehead. He reached for them, taking her small, cold hand in his. It was like holding a block of ice. He opened his mouth to speak but Myrcella spoke first. “Are you alright? You feel as though you have a fever.”

“I’m fine.” He answered quickly. “Did I wake you?”

Myrcella shook her head.

“No, I was already awake.”

“’Cella, love, are you still not sleeping?” He asked as he cast another, less panicked glance around the room. The fire had died out, and it was dark save for the dim moonlight creeping in through the partially drawn curtains. It had to be the early hours of the morning, at least.

Myrcella sighed quietly and he took it as a ‘yes’. “Is it because of Tommen?”

_Is it because of me?_

When he looked back at her, she was staring down at their entwined fingers. Her lips were slightly pursed and her long eyelashes were casting shadows upon the tops of her cheeks. Her long hair was escaping its braid and there were little locks of golden hair falling about her face in loose ringlets. He did not know if he had ever seen her so beautiful, or so sad.

“I don’t know what to do…” She whispered, speaking so quietly he almost did not hear her. “I know what my mother is trying to do, I do, but… but…  _Tommen_. If it is as your mother says – if war  _is_  as unavoidable as she makes it out to be – how could I possibly live with myself if I did not do all that was in my power to save him?”

He tightened his grip on her hand, feeling her fingers quake.

“I swore that I would always protect him, but how can I protect him from this?” As she spoke, brushing away a loose strand of hair, he could see the glint of tears upon her cheeks. He watched the first tear break free, sliding slowly down her cheek. As the tear fell, splashing upon her forearm, she seemed to finally break. No one could stay strong forever, not even Myrcella, who was, perhaps, the strongest person he knew.

She crumpled into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Her hand tore out of his, flying frantically to his chest. Both her hands balled into fists around his nightshirt, gripping it tightly. He found himself murmuring her name, unsure what else he could say. Her tears and her anguish struck him harder than the blow of an enemy’s sword. And his frantic, useless hands clutched her close, one buried in her hair while the other was pressed at the small of her back, as she sobbed against him. He did not know what to do - he could not make her promises, not now, not if he knew he could not keep them. And so, he searched for something –  _anything –_ to comfort her, but his thoughts were a blur, unable to bare neither her tears nor the sound of her pain. 

He wished inexplicably that Lord Arynn lived; Tommen might have been fostered there as King Robert and his father had once been. He would have been safe there. No army could face the Eyrie. Only one force ever had - Queen Visenya's dragon. And all the dragons were gone.

“If Tommen could be away from King’s Landing… with Stannis, or Renly, perhaps…” He found himself saying, uncertain where his words would take him. He felt Myrcella draw away from him a fraction, her tears lessening for a moment. She seemed to hold her breath, shaking as she held in her sobs. Her head lifted and her eyes met his. Full of tears, the green of her eyes blazed like wildfire.

“If I could get him away from my mother – from Joffrey - then... then...” She was chewing down on her lower lip, brows furrowed; he could practically see the wheels in her head turning, hurrying to process the thought. He both feared and prayed that had given her hope. He did not know if he should have, but he hoped he had.

Laying her head back against his chest, Myrcella was silent for a long time, still, except for her hands as they brushed away her tears. Looking to his own hands, he saw that they were shaking once more. They had been shaking all that previous day, his nerves sparked after the events in the woods and the visit of one of his bannermen. Theon told him it meant he wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t so sure. A part of him wondered if Myrcella knew how afraid he was. He found himself hoping that she didn’t. How could he convince her that all would be well if they both knew he didn't believe it?

 “Storm’s End.” Myrcella suddenly said, breaking the silence which had endured longer than he had realised. “Tommen must go to Storm’s End.”

His father wanted to bring the Lannisters to justice for Bran and for the former Hand, but they had only a thin thread of proof and his aunt, Lysa’s word. His father said Robert would listen, but his mother, Robb sensed, knew a war was coming. He had feared it all along, and now it seemed so inevitable that it was coming. His father wrote to secure Moat Cailin and White Harbor, whilst his mother conversed with their bannermen, quietly gaining their support.

If the worst came to head and something were to happen to King Robert, leaving the throne in the hands of his vile son and his Lannister mother, Robb feared that they would have to march on King’s Landing. And, at once, all he could think of was the stories he had heard of the Targaryen’s in the tower and what harm came to children in the hands of war...

Myrcella was right.

In Storm’s End with the king’s brother, Tommen would be safe. Safer at least, than he was, caught in the viper’s nest.    

For so long, he had had to watch her wrestle with her worries for her brother, fearing a choice she seemed to think they would force her to make. She had not been sleeping, not since the woods or even before that, kept awake by her fears. But with her uncle, perhaps, they had found their solution. Perhaps now Myrcella could find some sort of peace. He could see the hopefulness in Myrcella's eyes and prayed, for her sake if not his own, that she was right in this. There was a glimmer of the sweet, hopeful summer child he had thought he had lost alongside their son. "My father – he would not reject the idea. He… he would say it would do Tommen some good to be where there is good hunting and – and proper knights, like the ones in all the songs…”

Myrcella shifted and turned to him with a troubled expression crossing her fair features. “He does not read the letters I send. The only chance I have is if…” She paused, pressing her lips together. He knew what she was going to say. He knew very well, even if he wished he did not. “My father will only listen if… if I am there.”

“I feared as much.” He despaired, sighing. When she glanced at up to meet his gaze, her expression mirrored his own. His hand lifted and he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face before he spoke again, grave, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he could not explain. “But, ‘Cella – I wouldn't be able to come with you. With my father gone, I am Lord of Winterfell - and there must  _always_  be a Stark in Winterfell. I cannot leave it just to my mother and Bran. I -”

Myrcella cut him off by pressing her lips to his own. Her lips were soft, and he could taste the salt from her tears.

“I know.” She murmured as she drew back, her eyes shining with tears once more. “And I would not ask that of you.”

Tears streaked down her cheeks as he pulled her to him. He thought he heard a muffled sob as she laid her forehead against his jaw. She was still so cold. Her hands were shaking even more than his, but all the same, she gripped him even more tightly than he was her. There seemed an inevitability to what was about to occur. Everyone had always known that one day she would have to choose. And if Tommen was safe, then perhaps he would be able to keep her…

 

 

\--

 

 

The letter came late at night, the servant waking them both as he banged urgently upon the door. Robb rose quickly, rubbing his eyes as he moved to the door. He dragged it open, his irate and perplexed expression startling the servant.

“Sorry, m’lord, m’lady, but a raven has come. From King’s landing. From the Queen.” Robb snatched the letter at once, thanking the servant in a muttered breath. Myrcella called for him to open it, to read it, and he complied at once, stalking to the slow-dying fire. In the light, with embers jumping at him from the burning log which crackled and spat, he read aloud her mother’s letter.

_“Myrcella, I do not know how to tell you this through a letter, and though I wish I didn’t have to, I know I must. Tommen has been injured in a tourney. He insisted – as always – and he fell, his pony landing upon his leg._

_You must come home, Myrcella. Please. Tommen needs you, I do not know if he will be able to recover without you there by his side. He needs his beloved sister._

_Come home before it is too late.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, as always, that I took so long to update. I felt as though it was kind of dragging on, so I had a bit of writer's block, but I wanted to give Myrcella and Robb a few chapters before it all went to custard (but I am dreadful at writing anything other than angst half the time). Anyho', I hope you enjoyed this chapter and forgive any mistakes, I re-read through it at about 4am whilst watching crazy cat videos. It's a long one, so hopefully it makes up for me taking so long to update. I inserted a couple of direct quotes from the book and the show (in case you didn't notice) for the scene with the wildlings/with Theon talking about Kyra. For that scene I kind of blended the book/tv scene just, idk, because I felt like it.


	10. Chapter 10

 

  
_-_   **Myrcella**   _-_  

_I shouldn’t be here, I should be with Tommen._

Myrcella glanced half-heartedly around the castle as she passed through it, her thoughts unintentionally glum and bordering on desolate. Though she drifted from here to there like falling snow, all those around her moved in a fluffy of anticipated and action, seemingly unaware of their lord’s wife and her oddly distracted state of mind. Though, she could not entirely blame them, it was a busy morning, to say the least, busier than most. Lady Catelyn’s brother, Ser Edmure Tully, was planning a visit and the hall was being decorated once more. Where there had once been cobwebs and dust were flowers and candles. She was reminded of her father’s visit and the chaos he had brought with him, and it did her not good, as she was left once more thinking only of her brother.

Though three days had passed since she had received the raven in the middle of the night, nothing had changed. It had three days of waiting, three days of nothing, and three days of knowing neither if she was going nor if her brother had survived.

She should have left right away, but she hadn’t, and that was no one’s fault. Not truly. Lady Catelyn had advised against taking the Kingsroad, both out of the length of the journey and its dangers, and she had sent ravens out for a ship to be prepared in White Harbour – and though she understood that such things took time, each moment that passed felt like a lifetime as only one thought seemed to exist in her mind -

_He needs me and I’m still here._

It was difficult for her to think of anything else whilst she was being haunted by that one begrudging thought. She kept seeing Tommen in her mind’s eyes, unavoidably imagining the worst, and she could feel nothing but despair. She had made him a promise to look after him,  _always_ , and she could not help but feel as though she was breaking it by being apart from him.

As she left the castle, stepping through the great door, her hands adjusted the thick lavender shawl around her shoulders. As she surveyed the courtyard, she spotted Theon sat alone in the training yard. She could at least push her thoughts of Tommen away for a moment, thinking of how sorry she felt for the tension which had come between Robb and Theon since the wildling attack. The two had barely spoken in several days, and she had watched the pair of them huff and puff and behave like children, refusing to be the first to break and end the silence.

The brief few days of sun had all but gone now; the thick, dark clouds had returned to the skies, covering up any hint of a blue sky. There was a chill in the air that morning, worse than it had been for some time, and though the snows had yet to begin again, she could sense that they were not too far away.

“Theon!” She called as she crossed the yard. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t look up, not even when she was stood right before him. She frowned a little, but did not allow it to bother her. As if she had never spoken, Theon continued to stare down at his bow with that same dark expression he had been wearing all week.

“Theon?” She called again, a little more impatiently this time. But still, he watched his weapon intently, as though he were reading a story off of his arrows. She looked down at the bow, remembering – even if Robb refused to – how he had saved them all with it. His arrow would never have missed, even she knew that. He had struck right through the heart. “Will you show me how to use it?”

_That_ caught his attention.

“What?”

“Go on then, show me how to use it.”

He didn’t say anything; he just got to his feet after a moment and held out his bow.

She drew the weapon to her, examining it curiously. She had never understood why bows were so large. It seemed so unnecessary. She had mentioned it in the presence of one of her mother’s ladies in King’s landing once, and the woman had laughed, wondering aloud if the makers of the thing were trying to compensate for something that they themselves did not have –

Myrcella tried to hide her smirk, but she failed miserably.

“What?” Theon demanded again, but this time, despite his tone, she thought she saw a ghost of a smile tug at the corner of his lip.

“Is that a smile I see there, Theon Greyjoy?”

“Perhaps.” He said, grinning. She found herself smirking, her troubled thoughts momentarily forgotten, but then his hands moved to her waist and her smirk faltered slightly. Shooting him a glance, she narrowed her eyes. For as long as she had been in Winterfell, she had heard how he laughed and boasted of his recent escapades at the local pleasure houses and it had always aggravated her. She would not be treated so. “Stop scowling and move. You need to stand like this.”

Taking the bow in both her hands, as she had seen others do, she did as she was told and she followed the hands at her hips which turned her around. His foot tapped her ankle and she shifted to change her stance, feeling a touch of heat burn her cheeks. “You write your letters with your right hand so hold it in this.” Theon tapped her left wrist and she quickly changed hands. “You face the target like this.”

Though one of his hands remained stubbornly planted on her hip, the other brought an arrow to her eye level. “You fix the arrow as so, extend your arm and then you drag back the string to here.”

He tapped the corner of her lip and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Now let it go.”

Letting it go, she watched the arrow sail towards the target. She aimed for the heart and she missed. She grimaced for a moment, but then she saw that, though she missed the heart, she had been close. Grinning widely and genuinely for the first time in what felt like so long, she lowered the bow and handed it back to Theon. She was glad to see that his dark mood had lifted. It seemed he was back to himself,  _always smiling at all the wrong things_.

“Not bad.” He quipped. “For a girl.”

Turning her glare on him once more, she was forced to watch him lift the bow and shoot an arrow effortlessly at the target. He hit the bullseye and he barely even seemed to glance its way. Unable to bite down her frustration, Myrcella’s glare darkened and she quickly forgot all which her septa and her mother had taught her about a princess’ manners. Bounding forward, she tore his sword from its sheath and lifted it as high as she could. He turned with raised eyebrows, his smirk crooked and mocking.

She remembered the woods, and though it was a sore spot, it spurred her on. She had caught the wildlings by surprise. She wanted to surprise people more often. Perhaps that was it – perhaps she longed to do more than just  _surprise._ When she held a sword or a knife or a bow, she wanted to know how to use it. She didn’t want to be afraid. She would not have what happened in the woods happening again, not when there was something she could do to stop it.

Tilting the sword higher, she poked the tip to the hollow of his throat.

“I think you better yield.”

With a smile, she looked after her shoulder to see Robb ducking out from behind the wall of the stables. She wondered how long he had been watching as she pressed her lips together, supressing her laughter. She was glad to see him smile. Judging on the manner of his spirits of late, she would have expected him to be confused or even a little annoyed, but instead… Robb seemed almost pleased. He stalked towards them, grinning with his arms folded over his chest.

“Never.” Cocking one brow, she raised the sword higher and with it, she lifted his chin. Robb barked out a laugh and after a moment, so did Theon. He lifted his hands in false surrender and he and Robb exchanged an amused glance as she lowered the sword and allowed for it to slip from her grasp. It fell heavily to the floor, leaving her arm aching a little from the weight of it. As she stepped away, she took Theon’s bow back and she examined the arrows as she pretended not to notice Robb and Theon silently exchange apologies.

It didn’t take them long to return to their usual selves.

And though she got to practice with a bow again, it was not for long. She successfully hit her target only once before she felt a splash of rain upon the tip of her nose. She heard a loud crack of thunder overhead and lowered the bow.

“Theon!” She called, having to blink against the steady downpour of rain to see him. Robb was already under shelter, waving for her to follow him. She smiled at the sight of his hair plastered to his head and shook her head, turning around just as Theon stalked towards her. He took his bow from her and she thought she saw him raise his eyebrows at her. “He won’t say it, but he is grateful for what you did.”

“What-?”

“Thank you,” she said. The grey clouds had darkened and were blackening the sky. The rain would persist, she imagined, and it would only get worse. “for doing what you had to do. You saved us.”

She didn’t let him say anything. She didn’t want him to. She just smiled and she hurried away, running through the muck and ruining her dress so that she could be back at Robb’s side. He slung his arm around her shoulders, laughing at how drenched they both were.

When she looked back, she couldn’t see if Theon was still stood there or not. She was not certain why, but she hoped he wasn’t. She supposed a part of her had known from the moment she had seen his expression in the woods that he needed someone to tell him that he had done the right thing. Robb feared that his arrow might have missed and hit Bran instead, and though he was partially right in that –all she could think was, what if the time came for Theon to do what he had done to the wildlings again and he didn’t take it?

He had needed to know, and she had told him. She could only hope that that was enough.

 

 

\--

 

 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” She cried, clutching Lady Catelyn’s hands. The letter in her hands made it all so real. She was leaving. There was a ship waiting for her - a ship waiting to take her away from her Robb. “How I can I leave him? How can I leave you? What if -”

As often as she told herself that she would not be gone long, it did her no good. She was afraid, so very afraid, of what would come in the future between the family that she was leaving and the one she was returning to. She was not sure she could bear it.

The time had come for her to go, and did not know if she had the courage.

She had wanted to visit that little place beneath the oak tree where she kept a piece of her heart, but she did not know how she could say goodbye. She hoped at least, when she was gone, that Robb might go there and leave wildflowers for their son.

“No,” Lady Catelyn said, those Tully eyes so similar to Robb’s as they met hers, burning like a blue flame. “This is what needs to happen. You will see your brother and you will make sure he is safe, and then you will come back to us. You must, my son needs you. I do not know if he will be able to face what might come if he is without you.”

She wanted to be strong – strong like her mother, strong like Lady Catelyn – but she did not know how. Not when faced with something like this. But when she looked at Robb, who was sparring with Theon in the yard, she blinked the tears from her eyes. She had him. She had not lost him and war had not come for them just yet –  _yes_ , she thought,  _I can be strong too_. She could be strong like her mother, like Lady Catelyn, and she could be strong like Robb. He was her strength and she would not be gone from him for long.

 

 

\--

  

 

The rain had poured down on them hard and unrelentingly since the moment they had met the White Knife and she was not sure whether a person could be any more drenched than she and Robb were. The thick travelling cloak Lady Catelyn had lent her was stuck to her like a second skin and the mud which caked her horse’s legs was beginning to consume her too. The lights of the inn they had been journeying to all afternoon flickered ahead, barely visible through the darkness and the rain. Robb pointed at it, blinking hard against the rain, and she nodded, knowing it would be pointless to yell out.

Spurring on their poor, tired horses, it became a sort of race to reach the inn first, though they both arrived together, looked as though they had swam their way there. Even through the rain, she spotted the bewildered expression on the face of a drunk sat outside the inn, presumably taking the air to clear his head.

When they neared the inn’s stables, she and Robb dismounted their horses, the sound of their laughter drowned out by the rain. As their horses were taken to the stables, they ran, stumbling, to the safety of the inn. All it took was a flick of a gold coin, and a room was theirs. She had spent her life travelling in heavy wheelhouses, with a king’s pomp and a princess’ comfort, making the simplicity of it all seem so bizarre. Once, during the long journey to the North, her party had stopped in an overcrowded inn and her guardsmen had paid off the entirety of it, half its patrons being thrown out onto the streets so that she and her ladies and her guardsmen could sleep comfortably.

She and Robb were still laughing when they reached their room, clutching each other breathlessly after almost falling as they ran up the steep set of stairs. They had but the clothes on their backs to last them their journey, and entirely drenched, they at once hurried to the fireplace. Robb tugged off his cloak and it fell heavily, making a splattering sound as it hit the wooden floor. She peeled off her own clothing, her travelling gown sticking stubbornly to her shivering body. With her arms lifted, Robb had to drag the dress over her head to get it off of her.

They both were left shivering in their small clothes, their clothes hung up before the fire to dry. The innkeeper would be bringing up supper within the hour and she was not sure how they would be able to greet him. She glanced beside her, catching Robb’s eye.

They both dissolved into laughter at once.

How strange it was; that she had felt as though her heart was shattering into two at the beginning of the day and now she felt as though she were entirely filled with happiness. She had said her goodbyes with a heavy heart and had ridden away from Winterfell, looking over her shoulder the whole way. She had wept after saying her goodbyes to Bran and Rickon, her tears still fresh upon her cheeks when Lady Catelyn had embraced her and wiped them away.

The journey to White Harbour to meet Storm Dancer would take them a week on swift horses, whilst for the wheelhouse, it would take much longer. Beth Cassel took the place of her ladies – simply  _insisting_  that she joined her so that she would have the chance to see Sansa and Jeyne Poole again - and she rode in the wheelhouse alongside a handful of guards and a small trunk full of Myrcella’s things. Having left a week earlier, they would arrive in White Harbour a day before she and Robb did, giving the guards plenty of time to secure the ship and negotiate the captain’s payment.

She was glad of it. It felt almost like a gift. She and Robb had a week where they were simply two travellers on the road to the sea, not a lord and a once princess. They needed but a fire and a featherbed and they would be happy.

 

 

-       **Robb**  –

  

 

A sea bird woke him, the sudden shriek of the gull’s song startling him. In a way, he was glad. His body ached for a long rest, but his dreamless sleep paled in comparison to what he would find when he woke. And so, when he was pulled from his dreamless sleep, he did not mourn the loss of it, as he opened his eyes to see at once, a sea of gold.

It was his favourite sight to behold when he woke, on any hour of any day.

Myrcella’s long, lovely golden hair was strewn across his shoulder and the abandoned pillow beside her. She slept as she always did, curled delicately into his side, with her head tucked under his chin and her hands resting upon his chest. She was warm and soft and he could smell her hair, smelling the sweet scent he had so quickly grown to love when they were first married. It was jasmine, he learnt after some time.

A smile pulled at the corners of his lips as his hand slowly lifted, his fingertips lightly carting through the soft locks of hair which caught the morning sun and shone. He sensed, as his gaze reluctantly tore away from Myrcella, that they had slept in. Rough seas had kept them in White Harbour an additional few days, but it would be wrong of him not to visit the ship’s captain, Moreo Tumitis, to see if the Gods were perhaps favouring them that day. Though, privately, he hoped they weren’t.

As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he stretched a little, expelling a quiet yawn. His body did not thank him for it, not in the least. His body was tired, his legs aching after a week of hard riding, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep for days on end.

As he moved, his back arching a little, he earned a quiet murmur from Myrcella, whose palm flattened against his chest and determinedly pushed him back down onto the bed. He pressed his lips together, watching as her eyes reluctantly opened. She glowered at him through narrowed eyes, her forehead crumpled in an adorably endearing expression.

“If you wake me…” She mumbled, her lips warm against his collarbone. “I will be cross.” He laughed and the soft hand which had been laid atop him suddenly curled, nails digging into his chest. “I warned you.”

“Oh? And what you are going to do?” He felt Myrcella’s lips stretch into a smile and he laughed again. Myrcella sat up, her hair tousled and expression still a little sleepy, and, without saying anything, smirked as she moved so that she was sat with her legs astride him. He grinned. If this was her idea of some form of punishment, he had no objections.

There was something so devious in the way she smirked at him, her teeth catching her lip in a way which had him groaning aloud in frustration when a knock came at the door. “Are we ever to know a moment’s peace?” He muttered, his hands running up Myrcella’s soft thighs. She simply rolled her eyes, casting her attention to the door as another knock came.

“Yes?” She called, that smirk still playing at her lips. “What is it?”

“It’s only me, my lady.” Beth Cassel’s familiar, cheerful voice called back, the door opening ajar. The girl stuck her small hand through the gap and wiggled her fingers in a wave.  Robb heard her giggle. “I was just wondering when you would like to be dressed now, or if you would prefer to have your breakfast first.”

Myrcella’s hands lifted to the sleeves of her nightgown and she pushed them off of her shoulders, letting them slip down her arms.

“I believe I will be having my breakfast first…” she said, her nightgown pooling about her hips. He sat up slowly, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Beth Cassel asked her what she should bring for her, and Myrcella laughed. With her head thrown back in laughter, it gave him easy access to that certain spot on her neck. “I already have everything I need. Come back in –  _oh_  – I – never mind. I can dress myself.”

He did not hear what Beth said in response, all he was aware of was the attack of Myrcella’s lips against his and the scrape of her nails down his chest as –  _finally –_ the door closed and they were given their moment of peace.

 

 

\--

 

 

His mother had warned him of what could happen from the very instant he had suggested it. She had told him to delay the inevitable would only make it worse, but how could he let her go without being there by her side?

His mother’s words were not the only ones which were haunting him. Rickon’s followed him too.

As he thought of Rickon, how angry his brother had been, he felt himself grip her hand just that little bit tighter, not wishing to let go, even if he knew he must.  _“She’s coming back.”_ He had told him, but Rickon had shaken his head vehemently, his curly hair whipping around his face. His little brother’s eyes had darkened and the black wolf had growled by his side.

_“No, she’s not.”_

His brother’s words had been tucked in the back of his mind, forgotten, all until that morning. He had watched her sleep in the small hours, watching curiously as the stray rays of morning sun peaked through the holes in the curtains and played across her features, catching the strands of gold within her hair. He had felt, for a moment, happiness, and then, ever so slowly, it had seeped away until he was left with nothing. He felt the cold embrace of dread, his little brother’s words whispering eerily in his ear.

He looked ahead, his narrowed eyes scanning the skies for any black cloud which might turn to a storm. But the sea was calm and the sky clear, and ahead, stood upon the wooden docks, Beth Cassel waved. The tears which the girl had shed that morning had dried and now she seemed joyful to go, to sail to what was unknown to her.

How he wished he could bring himself to feel the same.

“We’ll be alright, you and I.” Myrcella declared, abruptly turning to grasp both of his hands in hers. A little smile tugged at the corner of her lips, it was small and endearing. But most of all; hopeful. “I know you’re worried. But… don’t be. I’m not afraid. Not anymore.” Her smile grew, and with it, returned to him was the sweet smile he had first fallen in love with. The kind which touched her eyes, which made them brighten and sparkle. It was as if he was warmed by the sun itself; his heart no longer seemed to ache with the cold sting of dread. “I love you.”

“And I love you.” He lifted her hands to his lips. “Come back soon.”

 

  

 

 

_**End of Part One**_

 

 

 

\-   Myrcella   -

 

 

The seas the ship’s captain called kind seemed cruel to her, battering them fiercely day after day, making any chance of sleep without some form of aid impossible. Icy waters sprayed and hissed and sloshed in the bowels of the ship unrelentingly, leaving the few items she had with her as bleak and as dismal as her thoughts.

Beth, though the girl tried, was little compensation. She turned green the moment the ship lurched a little too much, and wept whenever she sensed her death was close - which happened several times a night, for days on end.

Though she was certain she was beginning the sense the presence of the Stranger, they mercifully arrived in King’s landing in one peace. And though she was more than a little shaken, once her feet were set back on dry land and she could breathe fresh air without being soaked from head to toe, she was able to recall the journey in a more favourable light. Perhaps one day, she would look upon the evening which had resulted in Beth losing her dinner over the both of them in amusement.

Perhaps.

There was a litter awaiting them already, adorned in all the splendour she had grown so unaccustomed to. She was given her mother’s litter, the queen's private (and thoroughly under-used) transport, whilst Beth and the others rode behind on horses.

Curious fingers traced the gold lining which weaved through the pretty silk curtains of the litter, and as she sat down amongst the feather-soft cushions, she was greeted with hushed, respectful tones of ‘princess’ once more. There was no love in the way those around her spoke, respect yes, awe yes, but no love. She watched the common people as they passed, watching the starved souls of Flea Bottom bow and scrape to their masters and her litter, wondering why it was that they were any different from each other. What made her so different from everyone else? Sometimes she wondered, even if she knew she should not.

It seemed an age to reach the Keep, the comforts of the litter lost to her nerves. She imagined only the worst. Tommen dead. Tommen crippled. Tommen lost to her forever.

They were waiting for her when she arrived, her mother and her uncles, all the golden haired Lannisters stood out in front of the Keep. They looked so different from the last she had seen them, yet somehow they were still the same. Her mother was still so beautiful, her dress deep red and her bodice made to look like iron. Her uncle, the golden lion of house Lannister, smiled the widest at her, his white cloak billowing out behind him, but it was her uncle, Tyrion, she was most glad to see. He was there to help her from the litter, waving away the servants. She lowered herself to his smaller height and he kissed her cheek, his smile warm and comforting.

“It is good to see you looking so well.” He said as he stepped away. He spoke quietly, his words only for her. She smiled at him as he moved to let her pass, before she hurried to her mother’s arms. It was only then that she felt as though she were coming home. She and her mother embraced and she felt the tension which had been building inside of her ease away a little.

“Mother,” She murmured as she began to draw away, her mother’s tight grip on her unwillingly loosening, “will you take me to him?” She did not believe she needed to say who, and her mother, whose smile was as warm as the never ending summer, nodded.

“Of course, darling.” She said.

She felt her Uncle Jaime’s hand ghost over her shoulder as she passed him, and she smiled up at him. She did not stop to greet him properly, but she felt, on this occasion, that a smile was enough. He would understand, of that she was sure.

For some reason, they did not hurry. Her mother moved at an almost leisurely pace, her smile fixed, her eyes taking in everything as they passed. She made quiet comments on the state of Myrcella’s hair, her dress, her health and asked about her journey, but after she ran out of questions, the conversation came to an end. Silence spread between them and the warmth of their initial meeting cooled a little.

It doesn’t matter; she told herself determinedly, _it’s Tommen I am here for_.

“Where is father?” She asked, needing to break the silence.

“Oh, with his small council, I’d imagine.” Her mother, who with a small smile, rolled her eyes. Her tone was scornful, as expected. “He’s been with them all morning. There have been some… difficulties.”

“What do you mean ‘difficulties’? Has something happened?”

“It’s nothing to concern you with.” And with a smile, the matter was closed. Worry bit at her, as it always did, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. Yet, in spite of whatever difficulties her mother refused to speak of, she was looking forward to seeing Robb’s father again, and to delivering the messages she had been asked to give to him. She would be glad to see him, and Arya and Sansa too. Though she had never been truly close to the two girls, she had always enjoyed their company. She had missed Arya’s unruliness and Sansa’s sweetness.

As they approached Tommen’s chambers at long last, her mother beamed at her once more before she pressed her hand to her shoulder. “Wait,” she whispered, “let me be the one to tell him.” Her mother took the first step, smiling so brightly that Myrcella forgot her fear. She pushed open to the door to Tommen’s chambers and stepped through. “Tommen, sweetling, I have a surprise for you.”

Nervously, she carefully stepped through the doorway behind her mother and peered into Tommen’s chambers. She did not know what she had been expecting, but what she found surprised her – she found that nothing had changed; it was as it had always been. There was a small white and orange kitten playing on the floor with a ball of yellow yarn. There was a tunic tossed over the back of a chair. The windows were open, flooding the room with light. And there, sat upon the bed, was her brother. She had thought her mother’s smile had been warm, but the expression which lit Tommen’s face when he saw her… it could have chased any number of winters away. She pressed her hand to her lips as all the fear and sadness and anxiety bubbled up inside of her and simply, disappeared. She found herself laughing, laughing as her brother clambered clumsily off of his bed and raced towards her. He hit her hard, shrieking with laughter, and she stumbled as his arms wrapped around her torso. She pressed her lips to the crown of his golden head, her arms securing him to her, never wishing to let go.

But then… in the midst of it all, she remembered.

_I do not know if he will be able to recover without you there by his side._

“Tommen!” She gasped, dragging herself out of his embrace so that she could hold him at arm’s length. Her little brother had grown in their time apart, but other than that, he was just as he had always been, so endearingly sweet. He beamed at her, his smile truly the one treasure she was without when she was in the North. “You’re – you’re alright! How -?”

And then, suddenly, she grew very cold.

Tearing her eyes off of Tommen’s perfectly well, perfectly unmarked and unharmed face, she turned to look at her mother. Something dark and twisted cut through her, poisoning the happiness she had only been allowed to feel for so short a while. “Mother…” she whispered, unsure whether she would be able to face hearing the truth, “tell me… tell me that what you wrote wasn’t a lie. Tell me…”

 “We need you here.” Those few words were all she gave her, but it was enough for her to know the truth. Her mother’s expression told her the rest, told her all she needed to know. Her mother watched her unwaveringly, with no amount of shame or guilt. She had wanted her to come home, and she had done exactly what she had set out to do. Myrcella felt her grip on Tommen loosen and she took a step away, oblivious to the widening of her brother’s eyes, knowing only the steel in her mother’s smile.

“I don’t understand.” She whispered, but she knew exactly what her mother had wanted and why she was stood in the Red Keep rather than in the castle of Winterfell. Of course she knew. Everyone in Winterfell had known and she had ignored them, whether in innocence or ignorance she did not know. Robb had known, and still he had let her go. Had he not told her as much? _Your mother will do whatever it takes to get what she wants_ , he had said, and she had laughed over her goblet of wine and asked him what he meant. Robb had simply shaken his head, and told her not to worry about it. And she hadn’t.  It seemed now that she should have, even if, so cruelly, the thought was long delayed. “Why do you need me here? Why did you have to lie?”

“Because you belong with your family, Myrcella. You belong _here._ I couldn’t have you cooped up in the North forever, could I? I needed to see you.” Her mother’s words were poison. Her smile was poison. All of it was poison. It suddenly seemed so strange that she had never seen it before, that she had feigned innocence as to why Joffrey was the way he was. It’s not his fault, she had always insisted, he can’t help it. Perhaps some truth lay in her excuses.

 “’Cella?” She felt her brother tug at the pleats of her dress. “What’s the matter?” Sweet Tommen asked of her, and she struggled to come to grips with it all for him. For his sake, she blinked against all the tears she wished to shed and calmed the storm inside of her. It was for him, and only him, that she gritted her teeth, pushed a smile onto her lips and shook her head, murmuring that nothing could possibly be wrong.

“Am I to stay in my old rooms?” She asked her mother, wearing a smile she hoped was enough to convince Tommen that all was well. “I would like to change before I do anything else. These clothes seem to carry half the ocean with them…”

Though Tommen clung stubbornly onto her hand, her mother had servants summoned as though out of thin air and her things were directed to her old rooms. “Shall we speak over lunch in the gardens or will father wish to join us?”

“I doubt it.” Her mother muttered, her eyes flashing to the ceiling. “You have lunch with Tommen. We’ll all dine together at dinner, I promise. Then we shall have lots to discuss when you are not so… tired.”

With a parting smile, her mother left them shortly after, leaving her alone with Tommen. It was what she had longed for for so long, and yet she felt as though the moment had been sullied, her mother’s lie tarnishing what should have been a heartfelt reunion. But Tommen, dear, sweet Tommen, knew nothing of it. He clung onto her hand, his smile steadfast and constant in its warmth. She could not let her own feelings ruin seeing her brother again. Her mother had lied to bring her here, but at least in it, she was with him once more, and he was not hurt and he was not going to be taken by the Stranger anytime soon.

She ought to be grateful, it was more than most could say.

 

 

 

\--

  

 

The dress they laid out for her was Lannister red.

Something told her she should have expected that.

She waved away the servants her mother had assigned to her, and sat down upon her bed with a sigh. Beth joined her moments later, lowering herself lightly down beside her; her eyes were very wide and worried.

“Are you alright, my lady? You are ever so pale.” Myrcella could not bring herself to reply, she simply nodded, hoping it would suffice. “I cannot find Sansa.” Beth said, her concern for Myrcella was still evident on her features, but she did not press the issue. “Or Arya. I asked and no one would tell me anything.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, her expression shifting subtly from apprehension to despair.

“Who did you speak with?” She found herself asking, a little too late and after too long a pause. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” She pressed when Beth continued to stare down at her hands, “If I do not see Lord Stark tonight at dinner, I will ask my father.”

She wondered if her father ever would have done what her mother had. Not once in all her years in the North had he written to her. On occasion, her mother would latch on his love to her letters, but never, truly, did she believe it. She did not know if he would lie to her though. His faults were many, outweighing his virtues more often than not, but her father was no liar. Never had he been.

“I ought to help you dress; you don’t want to be late.” Beth murmured very quietly, pushing herself off of the edge of the bed with a small sigh. After a moment, with a pucker lingering between her brows, she rose to her feet as well.

Beth helped her dress in silence, her sad eyes downcast. Myrcella had tried to fill the uncomfortable quiet with half-hearted comments about the weather and the horrors of the ship’s journey, but her thoughts would not stray far from her own worries, her own despair, her own misgivings. She supposed it was selfish, but she could not think of Sansa or Arya or whatever it was bothering Beth, not when she could think of nothing but why her mother had brought her back and what she wanted with her. She said it was out of love, but somehow, Myrcella couldn’t bring herself to believe it, not now, not when war balanced on the tip of a blade, dangerously swaying this way and that.

“You look lovely.” Beth said as she finished drawing the tight strings of her bodice. It was the sort of dress she had not missed, the kind which she could scarcely breathe in. She had stopped wearing such dresses when her belly had begun to swell and had not thought to return to them. Though, with a small smile, she recalled it as the type Robb had so often almost had to tear off of her in his haste. She ran her hands down her sides, admiring the rich crimson and gold design. She wondered sometimes if her mother would prefer if she ceased to call herself a Baratheon or a Stark, as for so long she had made it seem as though she were a Lannister and nothing more.

“If I see Sansa tonight, I will tell her to come see you at once.” Myrcella called over her shoulder as she left the room, wringing her hands together at the thought of dining with her family. She did not presume to think that they would be dining with the Starks. No, tonight, she feared would be solely a family event. She imagined that she would have to sit between Tommen and Joffrey, a prospect she was not entirely looking forward too... Yet, she supposed, it had been sometime since she had seen her eldest brother and perhaps time had managed to change him, as it had changed her.

It was not a long walk her mother’s rooms within Maegor's Holdfast - she supposed they would sup there, as they always had done. She ought to have sought out Robb’s father, for both Robb and Beth’s sake, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

The short walk seemed to pass in a blink, and suddenly, there she was, lingering awkwardly outside her mother’s rooms, her palms sweating as she lifted her hands to push the doors open. She thought she heard laughter, not her father’s familiar booming laugh, but laughter all the same, and it gave her the incentive she needed to push open the two wooden doors.

In a similar deep crimson and gold gown, her mother sat already at the long dining table, her eyes shining and her golden hair twisted beautifully in the Southern style. Her uncle stood close by her side, guarding her, conversing with her, his white cloak all that divided them. Myrcella smiled. She had missed her uncle. Though she knew him less than she knew her other uncles, he held a special place in her heart. She did not quite know why, though she suspected that it was born from the awareness she had always had that if Joffrey ever took that step too far with either herself or Tommen, her uncle would be the one to stop him, regardless of the crown which was destined for his head.

Tommen was stood by Joffrey, smothered in Baratheon gold. They were new clothes, she presumed. He moved awkwardly in them, ever wary of their mother’s watchful eye. He beamed at the sight of her, and moved across the room to meet her at a slow, deliberate pace which bothered them both. She bent to kiss the top of his head as his arms looped tightly around her waist.

“Myrcella.” Joffrey called her name from across the room, snatching her attention away. She looked up in surprise, bewildered furthermore that his face was without its usual sneer. She smiled, in spite of the nerves bubbling up inside of her, and raked her fingers through Tommen’s hair one final time before he moved away.

“Joffrey.” She called back, finding a way to say his name in the cheery, sing-song voice which was usually reserved for Tommen and Tommen alone. The corner of Joffrey’s mouth twitched in what she assumed was a small smile, before he crossed the room in only a few long strides. He pushed Tommen away unkindly, though quietly enough so that their mother would not see, and embraced her. He hugged her more tighter than she would have expected from him. He embraced her as a brother ought to hug his long departed sister, something he had never truly done before. She thought of the last time they had seen one and other, remembering that the reception had been cold, and it made her wonder if he had missed her, and that was why he held her closer than he ever had before. She liked to think so.

“Come, sit down.” Her mother exclaimed, waving her hands at the empty seats. Joffrey’s arms unwound themselves from her and he drew away. He moved to the table, not questioning their father’s absence. Tommen took possession of her hand then, steering her towards the opposite side of the table from Joffrey. There, they sat together, his small hand clutching hers beneath the table.

Her mother sat at the head of the table, and her uncle, who had been stood by her side, moved to the door. He was guarding them, and yet, every now and again, he would look over his shoulder and smile at some unspoken joke between himself and her mother. She opened her mouth to ask where her father was, but she shut it when she caught sight of the servants moving into the room from the corner of her eye.

“Oh! How lovely, my favourite.” She gasped as the food was set down before them, filling the long table. She had not known until then that she was ravenous, her stomach beginning to ache as she inhaled the strong aroma. Tommen squeezed her hand one last time before he released it and helped himself to some supper.

“Welcome home, darling.” Her mother crooned, lifting her goblet of wine to wordlessly toast. Myrcella caught herself smiling, her troubles so easily forgotten. She could not seem to cling onto to her anger or her betrayal, or remember the fears she had felt only hours before. A part of her breathed easily, feeling so entirely _home_ that she was not sure whether she would not mourn the loss of it once she returned to Robb.

Excitedly, Tommen turned to her. He tugged at her sleeve and claimed her attention at once. “What is it?” She laughed, his bright eyes and beaming smile warming that special place in her heart which belonged solely to him. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

“I didn’t get to show you my new kitten! Uncle Tyrion gave her to me! She’s lovely!” Tommen exclaimed, and her eyes lowered from his exuberant smile, watching a little bit of gravy trickled down his chin. She wiped it away with the napkin draped across her lap, her action doing nothing to stop Tommen in his haste to expel as many words as possible. “She’s such a pretty colour, her coat looks like gold. Oh! Oh! She has lovely green eyes too! I named her after you.”

Fondly, she touched his cheek. “You will come see her after supper?”

“Of course.” She murmured quietly, lowering her hand.

As Tommen tore apart his pheasant wing, his determined expression making her smile to herself, she thought she heard Joffrey meant Sansa. His tone was not kindly. Her head lifted at once, remembering Beth’s concern over the girl.

“It’s scarred, mother. _Scarred.”_   She squinted slightly, her forehead crumpling into a frown. She remembered now. She remembered the day bones came to Winterfell, bearing a note which barely explained the reason for their arrival. She still remembered Robb's face, the drawn expression which had lingered there for days on end. The direwolves had understood before any of them had. Greywind, Summer and Shaggy had howled and howled, mourning their fallen sister. _Poor Sansa,_ she had thought at the time, and _poor Sansa,_ she thought now. She could not imagine what would come of Robb if he ever were to lose Greywind. They were a part of each other. She did not like to think of the suffering her goodsister had endured, all for the sake of her brother’s wounded arm – _more like his wounded pride_ , she thought bitterly to herself.

“How is Lady Sansa? Is she fitting in at Court?” She asked, forcing an unnecessary cheer to her tone. She thought she heard Joffrey mutter something, something unfavourable about his betrothed, and she rolled her eyes. “If you intend to make her your lady wife, you must find a way to forgive her _one day_.”

She meant to sound playful, but rather she came off _instructing._ She saw the twitch of Joffrey’s lips, hinting a grimace rather than a smile this time, and knew she had made a mistake. He would take some offense at that. “I jest, brother.”

The silence stretched on after that, awkward, tense and uncomfortable.

“Where is father?” She inquired as the meal came to an end, when she could no longer bare the silence, and when her curiosity got the better of her. She knew she ought to have remained quiet, but the little wine she had had took an edge off of the things and it no longer seemed to matter as much as it had before if she said the wrong thing.

“With his small counsel,” Her mother muttered, looking up at her over her large gold goblet of wine, “I presume.”

“Oh,” it was all she could think to say.

As the silence drew on once more, Joffrey was the first to speak. He rose to his feet, his expression looking only mildly irritated – which, from experience, meant he was in a reasonably good mood – and set down his goblet.

“Goodnight.” He said, nodding his head at their uncle. He bent to kiss their mother’s cheek and moved around the table to mimic the action with her. Another surprise. Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps her memories of her brother were tainted, were bias, from what she had seen him inflict on Tommen. Perhaps he had changed… His fingers wrapped loosely around her shoulder and he lowered his head, pressing his lips to her cheek. She smiled sheepishly, lifting her hand to pat his before he drew away.

“Goodnight,” She murmured, rising to her feet as the doors closed behind Joffrey. Tommen jumped to his feet as well, his grin spreading wide across his plump face. “May we please be excused, mother?”

Her mother waved her hand in dismissal, but smiled all the same.

“Of course, sweetlings.”

After they had both said their farewells to their mother and uncle, she took Tommen by the hand and towed him from the room. He took her to his rooms first, seeking out the kitten he had named after her. She stood outside, her foot tapping impatiently. He appeared moments later, his hands behind his hand, his grin eager and exultant.

“Are you ready?” He asked, and she nodded enthusiastically. Never one known for his patience, she had barely finished nodding before he drew his hands out from behind his back. He held out a tiny kitten, sat happily on the upturned palms of his hands. It was so small, its coat almost golden-like, just like he had said it was. Its large eyes were as green as emeralds and around its neck, Tommen had fashioned a pretty purple ribbon. She cooed uncontrollably, eagerly reaching out to take the little thing into her hands. Tommen beamed at her, pleased with her reaction as she giggled and scratched behind its little golden ears. The kitten trembled slightly, but she could hear its purrs.

“What a lovely present,” she said, “I hope you said thank you.”

“Yes, yes, I did! I did!” Tommen exclaimed, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as his hands impatiently reaching out to take the kitten back. She smiled and passed Myrcella the cat back to his waiting hands.

Tommen brought the kitten with him as they walked the short distance to her rooms. A smile was plastered to her face in spite of the return of the clouds to the sunny thoughts her brother filled her head with. All she needed to do was get her brother out of King’s landing and to somewhere she knew he would be safe. She could face her mother’s fury when it came. She wouldn’t be afraid.

Beth was sat upon her bed, as she had been when she had left her, when she and Tommen walked up the stairs and into her chambers. Worry was still etched onto her features, and she jumped to her feet at the sight of them, mumbling her apologies.

“Have you –?”

“Not yet.” She answered quickly. Trying her best to appear comforting and kind, ignoring the small part of her that itched to ask the girl to leave so that she and her brother could be granted some privacy. “But I will ask for an audience with Sansa and Arya first thing in the morning. I am a little too tired to do that right now.”

In truth, all she wished to do was curl up by Tommen’s side and fall asleep to the sound of his mumbled sleep talk, with his little hands curled up by hers, their fingers threaded together. But she couldn’t, not yet, not until she made sure he would be safe once she was gone.

“Tommen…” She murmured as Beth slipped out of the room. “How would you like to go live with Uncle Renly, in Storm’s End?”

Tommen plonked himself down on her bed, momentarily distracted by the kitten as it wiggled free and clumsily moved around on her bed. He looked up at her eventually, his expression was a little confused, but it was no more than she had expected. “I’ll be able to visit you if you live at Storm’s End.” She hated to lie to him, but it was necessary. “And you’ll be able to visit me. Whenever you like.”

“Really?” Hope sparkled in his green eyes.

“Yes, by ship it’s not far from Winterfell. Not far at all.” She considered it lucky that Tommen had never paid much attention to their septa (he’d paid even less attention than Joffrey had, and _that_ was saying something). He knew the great houses’ words well enough, but knew little of Westeros. She could have told him the Vale was flat and he would have believed her. _Dear, sweet Tommen._ “I might be able to see you every other month - if you like.” Tommen nodded happily, and it spurred her on, reaffirming her determination. “You’ll learn to be a knight and someday, maybe, you might be the lord of Storm’s End. You’ll make father very happy.”

“What does mother say?” She was glad he wasn’t looking, that he was gazing adoringly down at his little kitten. He didn’t see her smile falter. He giggled and paid her only a fraction of his attention. “Is she happy about it, too?”

“She will be.” It was enough, she told herself. Enough lies - for now.

She flopped down on the bed beside Tommen, kicking her shoes off of her sore and tired feet. With a yawn, she laid her head back against the statch of soft pillows, watching sleepily as Tommen teased a long white feather in front of the kitten’s face. She lasted only five minutes before sleep took her, her soft smile still etched upon her lips.

 

 

 

 

\--

 

 

In the morning, she left Tommen fast asleep in her bed; his kitten clutched to his chest, and waved away anyone who attempted to wake him for his lessons. She didn’t care if the septa would be cross or that her mother would be irritated, she could not disturb him, not when he slept so soundly, so innocently, so entirely unaware of the darkness swirling above their heads. It was coming, and she would stop at nothing to keep him safe from it. That she swore as she looked down at him, her finger lightly brushing across his soft, pink cheek.

She would protect him, always.

And, practically feeling Beth’s nerves radiating off of her from the next room, she would do as she had sworn, and so she set out to find Sansa.

The Keep was pleasantly quiet as she passed through the long, winding halls; she brushed past the occasional servant, but nothing more. She strode through the Great Hall, passing by the empty Iron throne, and travelled determinedly in the direction of the Tower of the Hand. She hoped, later, to see her father without her mother there. If he had not had too much to drink, she would speak with him about Tommen. Hopefully he would understand. Hopefully he would agree.

As she drew near the Tower of the Hand, she was pleasantly surprised to see Cayn, one of Robb’s father’s guardsmen. He had always been eternally polite to her, a quality she admired. He nodded his head at the sight of her, smiling faintly. “Good morning, my lady.” He said, his head still respectfully bowed.

“Is Lady Sansa awake yet?” She asked, and was bewildered by his reaction. First, the guard appeared confused, frowning at her, then the expression shifted, from alarm to understanding, and then returned to confusion. Watching all the different expressions flit across his features left her feeling confused, something she hadn’t expected. “Do – do you know? Or should I ask someone else?” Her words came off a little rude, more sarcastic than she had intended, and she hoped apologetic smile made up for it.

“My lady, Lord Stark and his family are no longer here. They left King’s landing two days prior to your arrival. My lady, forgive me, but I would have thought you would have been informed, but Lord Eddard Stark is no longer the Hand of the King…”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm sorry it always takes me so long to update. I suck, I know. But, my laptop fan is functioning again and after the next couple of weeks I should be free as a bird, so I should get updates up more quickly (fingers crossed, I have a lot of late essays that I haven't even started yet). Anyhoooo, thanks for reading, lovelies!


	11. Chapter 11

 

An odd sense of calm had settled over her bones, a calm which came before the storm. It would not be long; her brief period of peace would not endure much before it was shattered. Her eyes were fixed away from her uncle, seeking out a kinder sight. She looked out the great arched window, watching the vivid orange wings of a butterfly flap lazily as it settled on the branch of a lemon tree. Such a beautiful day, she mused, so unworthy of all those who were there to enjoy it.

“Myrcella?” She reluctantly allowed herself to turn at the sound of her name. Her uncle Tyrion was sat before her now; his hands were clasped together on his lap, his expression frightfully serious. She had to take a deep breath before she could speak, fearing now, for the first time, what his response would be to the onslaught of questions she had stored up inside of her.

“Where is he?” She asked as she settled onto the warm, sunlit window seat. Her uncle drew his chair up, drawing it close to her. She knew that he would know of whom she asked, but she rephrased her question, her eyes fixed furthermore on the orange butterfly. “Where is Ned Stark?”

“Ah, Ned Stark.” Her uncle laughed, his serious expression lessening for the first time since she had appeared at his door. She gnawed at her lower lip, resisting the urge to turn the full force of her glare on him. “It seems strange that no one informed you of this...” She looked to him then, a crease forming between her eyebrows as she had to impatiently gesture for him to continue his train of thought. “He’s not dead, Myrcella, if that is what you fear. No harm has come to the good and noble Lord Eddard Stark. No, as I gather, he resigned –”

“What do you mean?” Questions tumbled out of her now, and there was no stopping them. “If no harm has come to him, then where is he? Why will no one tell me what happened? And why haven’t I seen my father since I arrived? What -?”

“Robert is furious; he has been since he left. I would wager that he probably doesn’t even know you’re here.” Her uncle replied calmly, entirely unfazed by her hurried rush of questions. “Ever the pillar of honour, Ned Stark took offense to the demands of your father, and so he left. That is all there is to the story, Myrcella, you do not need to be afraid.”

“What demands?” She exclaimed, his telling her not to be afraid made her more anxious than ever. She felt her hands tremble, and so she hid them behind her back. “I don’t understand, what could he possibly ask of him that would make him leave?”

“Do you remember the story of the last Targaryen children?” He paused, and she nodded. Of course she remembered, she had always recalled the stories of her father’s rebellion as something from a nightmare. Elia Martell and her children slaughtered, her father’s betrothed found dead in a tower, and the prince and the princess lost, exiled to the free cities, alone, with their mother and father dead… It made her sad to think of them. “Daenerys Targaryen is a child no more.” He continued. The small change in her expression did not go unnoticed by his eyes. “She is pregnant by a Dothraki Warlord and it is your father’s wish that she should be… well, _dealt_ with.”

“Oh.” It all clicked into place then. She felt suddenly cold. She knew as well as anyone that her father held no love for the Targaryens. _Dragonspawn_ he called them. “My father ordered her death and Lord Stark refused?” It all made so much sense, even if she did not want to believe it. Daenerys could not be much older than she was. She had been trapped in the Free Cities all her life, and had been married to a savage. Myrcella felt only pity for her, for she who would have been a princess if it weren’t for her father.

“Yes. There was an argument, a very large one, in fact, and after which, Ned Stark supposedly visited a brothel with several of his guardsmen, and then took his daughters and left.” She shook her head numbly. Robb’s father would never visit a brothel. That was surely a lie created in the attempt to tarnish his reputation. The urge to defend Robb’s father bit at her, but she held her tongue, remaining silent. “A portion of his household still remains, choosing to take the kingsroad back to Winterfell.”

Myrcella rose quickly, unsteadily. She thought she heard her uncle say her name, but she could not bring herself to look at him. Her head swam a little from what she had learnt and all at once, the calm was suddenly gone. She was fearful once more. She hated the thought, but it seemed as though she was alone here after all. Once the rest of the Stark household had returned to Winterfell, she would be without any link to her Northern family. She would be alone, and though she still had Beth, it left her stranded in dangerous waters. She was afraid that her mother would stop at nothing to take advantage of it. Robb had been right to be nervous; it seemed that all he had feared had come true…

“Thank you,” she murmured half-heartedly, “for your honesty.”

“Myrcella, are you alright?” She blinked, forcing herself out of her uneasy reverie, as she was dimly aware of him speaking. She looked at him uneasily, unsure what the answer to his question was. “There’s nothing for you to be afraid of. Robert is angry, but he would never harm Ned Stark. That man is more his brother than either of his true brothers ever could hope to be.”

She nodded numbly, dragging her fingers through her tangled hair. She remembered what Robb had half-growled on the brink of her departure – _are we ever to know a moment’s peace? –_ it felt strangely fitting for her current predicament. Her uncle’s worried eyes followed her as she stalked out of his room, her feet catching on her skirts, making her stumble as she left the sunlit solar. She knew, as she stepped out into the open corridor, that she ought to have remembered her formalities. She should have stayed, thanked him for what he had done for her when he had been in the North. He deserved her gratitude; he had helped draw her from the aching despair which had followed the death of her child. He had helped bring her back, and he deserved more than the stunned silence she found herself in. There were so many things she _ought_ to do, but there was only one that she was going to do.

She needed to speak with anyone who was left from the Stark household. She needed to know that her uncle spoke the truth, that Robb’s father and his sisters were safe. And she needed to know that there was, at least, one honest member of her family.

The Keep was oddly quiet for that time of day and she was able to move through it without passing anyone. It was only when she reached the Tower of the Hand that she met a familiar face. Heward, one of the more familiar of guardsmen, stood outside the doors leading up into the tower, his grave expression brightening at once when he caught sight of her. She had hoped that she would find Jory, Beth’s cousin, but she assumed, as he was the captain of the guards, that he would be accompanying the Starks on their return to Winterfell.

“It’s good to see you, my lady.” Heward said as he smiled in a friendly manner. Forcing herself to put aside her troubled thoughts, she dipped her head a little in greeting and forced herself to smile. “No one mentioned that you would be coming.”

“No,” she murmured, a little distracted as she cast a wary glance over her shoulder, sure she saw movements in the shadows which weren’t there, “it was a spur of the moment decision… I wonder… would you tell me what caused Lord Eddard’s sudden departure? I gather that it has something to do with an argument with my father – is that correct?” Heward nodded, and she continued, relieved that her uncle had been telling the truth. “And after this disagreement, he went to a brothel? Is that true?”

“Yes, my lady, but it is not what it sounds like. My lord would never – no, he would not visit such a place for _that_ reason.” He ducked his head, his stance signalling his discomfort, but she took no notice. She waved her hand, urging him to continue. “He visited a blacksmith, and then he went to the brothel because of Lord Stannis and the former Hand.”

Her uncle had mentioned nothing of a blacksmith or of her uncle Stannis and Jon Arryn. She blinked several times, stunned. She had not expected that. It was as much out of her uncle Stannis’ nature to visit a brothel as it was her goodfather’s. She knew little of the former Hand and his nature, but imagined that one whose words were _‘as high as honour’_ would not dishonour his wife by visiting such an establishment.

“I – I would not speak of my lord’s business, but as you are -”

“Of course, of course,” she muttered quietly, distracted once more as the new information swirled around her thoughts in confusion, “thank you for informing me. You were right to. Though if you would humour me - please, tell me why he visited the blacksmith, surely it would not be necessary for him to personally commission any item?”

Heward glanced around them, as if he were checking for something. She wondered if he had seen the same movements in the shadows that she had; a glimpse of the infamous listening birds the Keep was never without. “You can trust me.” She pressed in a low voice, taking a small step towards him. “I would never betray my goodfather’s confidence.”

“I do not know why, but he visited to speak with a boy. He visited the brothel for the same reason, to speak to a mother about her child.” He spoke in the same low voice, his words whispered and hurried. Her uncle had not mentioned this either. Perhaps he did not know. She frowned to herself, processing the information. She did not know enough to guess. She would have to go and see for herself, she reasoned.

“Would you take me there?”

“No, my lady! Such a place is not meant for -” She held up her hands, cutting the guard short. Heward quickly grew quiet, though his alarm was still evident in the way that he stared, wide eyed, with his mouth open. A small part of her was amused that he was so scandalised by the idea of her visiting a brothel, as if what she would find there was something she had never seen the likes of before.

“I would not ask if it was not necessary.” She urged, reaching out to grasp his shoulder. The chainmail was cold and it stung her bare fingers a little. Her touch did nothing to relax the guard, not in the least, but his resolve was not strong, and after a moment, he grudgingly nodded his head. She smiled faintly and drew her hand back to her person.

Noting the sense of urgency, he offered – albeit reluctantly – to escort her within the hour and she nodded gratefully. Wyl replaced him as guard and he accompanied her to her rooms, into which she disappeared to change her gown to something less conspicuous, one which had a hood which she could hide her hair behind. The quiet within the Keep made her confident, certain that no one would follow or whisper as she left with Heward and took a horse rather than her usual litter.

They rode from the Keep quickly, slowing only when they reached Flea Bottom. She lifted her hood then, hiding behind it as they manoeuvred through the busy, narrow streets. Another guard, Varly, had recounted the tale to Heward and told him the way, something which he mentioned as they rode close together, the stench of the city stinging her nose. She hoped that they looked like travellers, simply passing through, and that they would go by unnoticed. She feared what her mother might say if she knew, and wondered what her father’s reaction would be if he knew his daughter had slipped away to investigate brothels and blacksmiths. Her father would most likely laugh, but her mother – no, her mother would find nothing amusing in the story.

They rode to the blacksmiths first, and she had Heward tie their horses to poles a small distance from it, hoping that if they were followed, whoever watched might think she was visiting a dress maker or something less out of the nature of a princess. If anyone asked, she decided that she would tell them that she was visiting the poor, something her mother had never cared to do, and something she supposed she _ought_ to do. The people held little love for them, and though it was what her parents deserved, it was not how things ought to have been for a king and his queen. Lord Eddard was held in high regard throughout the North and unlike her mother and father; he deserved the love he received. She remembered that when speaking of the lord he wished to be, Robb had repeated his father’s words to her – _“know the men who follow you, and let them know you. Don't ask your men to die for a stranger.”_  Her father would, she thought grimly to herself as they entered the blacksmith, her father would ask strangers to die for him.

“Yes?” A terse voice called out to them on their arrival. She looked around her, taking in the large display of weapons and armour. The armour surrounding her bore so much polish that it shone. She supposed the man, Tobho Mott, was very proud of his craft, and for that she could not discredit him. “What is it, _what is it_? What can I help you with?” The sharp voice called again, the owner of it stepping out from behind a door. Heward stepped forward, stepping out so that he partially shielded her.

“Are you Tobho Mott?” Heward demanded, and she noted that his hand did not stray far from his sword, ever ready for whatever came at them. The man nodded, his thick brows drawn tightly together as he glanced between the two of them. There was something dark smudged across his cheek, something which he irately rubbed with a rag.

Myrcella lifted her hands and pushed her hood back so that it fell back to her shoulders. She stepped around Heward, her hand briefly touching him shoulder in assurance, and politely smiled at the blacksmith. Mott seemed at a loss for words, his expression one of both bewilderment and suspicion. He lowered the rag and eyed her curiously as she cast a glance around the forge.

“I wish to commission an item.” She said calmly, looking around the forge showing none of the haste she felt building up inside of her. “I would like a small blade, the finest possible blade, with an emblem of a direwolf.” She looked back to the smith, judging his expression. He seemed merely curious. Her subtle hints fell short, and she sighed inwardly. “And I would like to see the boy.”

Mott frowned and he glanced from her to Heward in obvious confusion. For a brief moment, she feared that they had visited the wrong blacksmith and made a mistake, but from beside her, Heward nodded and urged her to continue. “I would like to see the boy who was visited by the Hand of the King only five days ago.”

The man sighed; he looked less confused now and more annoyed. He nodded wordlessly and turned away to open the door he had stepped through. He gestured for them to follow. Heward quickly ventured first, his hand still lingering close to the pommel of his sword, and after a moment, called for her to follow. She was glad of the thick purse of coin she had brought with her. If she was given the answers she sought, she’d buy a blade, though she knew not whether it was for her or for Robb.

The heat of the room was astonishing; the air was so thick she could barely breathe. There was a boy there, tending a massive coal fire with his back to them. His name, she gathered, was Gendry, as he looked up from his work when Mott shouted out the name. Almost momentarily, she was startled by his appearance. Tall and with dark hair that was slick with sweat, he looked as though he were about her age, perhaps a little older. As he approached, the boy wore a somewhat irritated expression that reminded her terribly of someone. But it was his eyes that troubled her the most. So very blue… So very familiar...

“Hello,” she said with a well-mannered smile, “my name is Myrcella. Myrcella Stark.”

Mott reacted to that. He spluttered a bit and straightened his posture. “The king’s daughter, yes,” she murmured, hoping the touch of amusement to her tone would sooth the unease on the poor blacksmith’s face, “but that’s not important.”

“Stark…” The boy quietly echoed, his dark brows drawing together in what appeared to be confusion rather than irritation this time. He lifted his head, those blue eyes meeting hers directly for the first time. “Like the Hand.”

“Yes, exactly.” She quickly answered, “I hoped that you would be able to tell me what it was he sought you out for.”

“He asked me questions, just like the other one did.” The other one had to be Jon Arryn. But why, she wondered - why this boy? Why did both Jon Arryn and Robb’s father visit him? What was it that made him so important all of a sudden? “Questions about my mother, about my work and all. Told him just what I told the other one. My mother died when I was little, she had yellow hair and she worked in an alehouse.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.” She murmured sincerely, though her attention was fixed on those blue eyes. There was something so painfully familiar about him, something she could not place. She wondered if they had somehow met before, or if he had any siblings she might have come across. “Do you have any brothers, or any sisters? And your father, is he alive?”

“No, m’lady. None I know of, and I never knew my father.”

Her lips twisted together thoughtfully as she considered what it was she was faced with. For a reason she could not fathom, this boy was important and he seemed know even less than she did as to why. It nagged at her and nagged at her, and she sighed.

“That is all that you were asked?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“Do you still require the blade, my lady?” Mott spoke up, “I could have the boy make if, if you like. He’s a fine smith. He shows great promise.”

“Yes, that would suit me well.” She said with a smile, looking back to Gendry. He was staring down at the floor, his expression once more transforming into something so familiar that it pained her. “Thank you for answering my questions.” She pulled her purse from the pocket sewn into her skirts and emptied a generous amount of gold coins into her hand. She held her hand out for him. “For the blade, and for your time.”

She turned her hand and let the coins slip from her hand to his. The gold glinted in the firelight and she smiled faintly at the way he gaped down at it. In truth, she no longer cared about acquiring a blade, all she hoped was that whatever gold the boy was able to keep for himself would be put to good use, and that guilt over what she had and he didn’t would not plague her later.

She thanked him again and Tobho Mott before she left, following closely behind Heward as they left the forge. As they stepped back out onto the street, she cast a glance over her shoulder, seeing that he was stood in the doorway, watching her go with a peculiar expression on his face. She smiled, but he turned away before he could see and shut the door behind him.

“My lady, forgive me, but I don’t like to think what your husband would say if he knew I was taking you to a brothel…” Heward muttered, and she laughed. She could almost picture Robb’s face – first, he would look a little confused, and then he would laugh. The thought of his laughter came with a sharp aftertaste. Missing him ached like a wound which refused to heal.

It was not a long ride to the brothel, Heward knew the way so well that she suspected that his visit with Lord Eddard had not been the first or the last time he had been there. He glanced around them nervously as they dismounted, whilst her eyes surveyed the area curiously, wondering what she would find within. And her suspicions were proved right in the end, as Heward was recognised the moment he stepped through the brothel doors. Myrcella had to hide her smirk as she watched a deep red blush spread across his cheeks. After Heward spoke with a woman called Chataya, they were lead down a long corridor and up a set of stairs; there the woman opened a door to a small room, in which a young girl sat, nursing a small child.

“Leave us, please.” Myrcella found herself saying, and soon she was left alone with the girl in the small room which was empty save for a chair and a bed. The girl was pretty; her hair was a soft red colour, though her child’s was dark. Myrcella lowered herself onto the edge of the bed opposite her, wondering if this room was used for pleasure – the thought seemed distasteful, as she looked at the tiny child as she thought it. She guessed the babe was a girl from the faded pink blanket it was wrapped up in. “What’s her name?”

“Barra.” The girl said quietly, stroking the child’s head.

“You were visited by the Hand of the King several days ago; would please you tell me what was said during this visit?” She did not wish to say ‘what was done’; it made her imagine things she did not ever wish to.

“His lordship asked me about the baby…” The girl replied softly, drawing the babe from her breast. She was so young, and it made her almost wince to look at her as she remembered how she had feared that her own age had been considered a little too young for a child…  “He asked her name, asked how I was… did he tell him what I said? Is that why you’re here?”

The hopefulness stung, and Myrcella had to shake her head.

“No, I’m sorry, that isn’t why I’m here.” If she had thought the hopefulness in her eyes had stung, it was nothing against the sadness that crossed the girl’s face. It cut Myrcella like a blade, something within her growing inexplicably empathetic for the girl. “I was just hoping you could tell me why both the Hand and the former visited you. Is it because of Barra?” The girl nodded. “Why? Who is her father?”

It could not be the girl who was important. It made more sense for it to be the father who was the key factor. Why else would there be such an interest in the child and her mother? What was it that she was missing?

“His grace.” The girl murmured, her eyes dropping to the child as she made a small gurgling sound. As the girl brushed the tips of her fingers through the dark hair that fell around the babe’s face in silky curls, Myrcella felt something very cold clench around her heart, the pit of her stomach growing suddenly heavy.

“The _king_?” She stammered. “King Robert Baratheon is Barra’s father?”

The girl seemed oblivious to her tone.

“Would you like to hold her?” She asked after some time had passed, shocking Myrcella out of her stunned silence. She nodded mutely, unsure what her voice would sound like if she tried to speak. She held out her arms as she lifted herself off of the edge of the bed and welcomed the child into them. She was such a little thing, pale, and nothing like the plump, pink thing she remembered Tommen being. Barra’s eyes opened slowly… opening to show a sea of blue. Her eyes were blue. Myrcella’s heart, which before had pounded so violently, suddenly grew almost still. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she expelled it raggedly. She thought of Gendry, of his dark hair and his blue eyes. He and the child shared the same features, the same coloured eyes, the same hair, the same shaped chin. The realisation clicked into place and she heard her heart begin to race once more, hammering in her chest as though it was fighting to get out.

She had not told the girl her name, and for that, at least, she was grateful. She wasn’t sure what the girl would do if she knew that she had let Myrcella hold her sister for the first time. _Sister._ The word seemed so foreign and strange to her. She looked down at the child, into those dark blue eyes, and she could not fathom what it was she had uncovered. She realised, with unease stirring within her, that it meant that the blacksmith - Gendry - was her brother.

Her bastard brother.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” The girl cooed in a small voice and Myrcella looked back at the child once more before she passed her back to the mother. She took in her dark hair, dark blue eyes and rosy lips and had to agree. But the thought of the child being her sister ached in a way she wouldn’t have expected – though, she never would have imagined a day like this would come. In one day, she had met both her bastard brother and her bastard sister. That was certainly not how she had imagined when she had woken up that morning…

With trembling fingers, Myrcella reached back into her small pocket and drew out her coin purse. She held it out for the girl, who stared at it with the same hopefulness touching her features. “Is – is it from him?”

“Yes,” she murmured in a quiet voice, the lie falling unconvincingly off of her tongue. The girl didn’t seem to notice. She took the purse and smiled so gratefully that Myrcella had to look away. “I was told the king wished for me to give this to you. For Barra. I’m sure that he would have come himself but I’m afraid he was busy…”

As Myrcella turned away, a troubled thought sprang to mind. She wondered, first, how many existed, how many bastard brothers and sisters there were in the Seven Kingdoms that she didn’t know about, that her father had left to fend for themselves. She wondered if he knew, or if he even cared. And then, as she cast a final glance over her shoulder to little Barra, and thought of the strange look on Gendry’s face, she wondered why his two bastards looked so alike, and yet she and her brothers held nothing of the Baratheon look. Gendry had said his mother had yellow hair, and Barra’s mother’s hair was red, and yet, both children were born in the exact image of their father…

_Strange_ , she thought to herself as she passed through Chataya’s brothel, _how very strange_ …

 

\--

 

 

Shadows had begun to stretch across the ground and the light had begun to dim, the sky blazing deep orange and red with the setting sun, when they returned to the Red Keep. She had been away for much longer than she had intended, with most of her time spent stood outside of the brothel, breathless and wordless, unable to move for a very long time.

Her thoughts spun around and around in fast, confusing circles, making little sense. She kept seeing Gendry’s face and Barra’s and then Tommen’s and Joffrey’s. And still, she kept coming back to the same unanswerable question – even if her father had numerous bastards, what about them was so important that both Hands of the King and her uncle had felt the need to visit them?

She finally saw her father for the first time when she entered the Red Keep, finding him in the Great Hall, stepping down from the Iron Throne. Even from afar, she could hear him complaining about how uncomfortable the thing was, and how it didn’t seem too much to ask for him to put a cushion on it. On any other day, she might have smiled.

But instead, she looked at him and she saw the face of his bastards.

Her eyes narrowed, resentment burning through her. What would come of Barra, she wondered? Her mother was a whore. Would she grow up in a brothel and have no choice but to follow her mother’s path? It made her sad to think of the child, knowing how bleak her future would be. She wondered if there was a way to help her, to send her some more coin without anyone noticing…

“Myrcella!” Her name was boomed throughout the hall, tearing her violently from her thoughts. She looked up to see that her father was stalking towards her and was surprised to see that he was grinning - as though he truly were glad to see her. He didn’t seem to notice how she glowered at him. Shaking a little in both anger and uncertainty, she closed the remaining few steps between them. With a loud, booming laugh, her father dragged her into a tight embrace. She could barely breathe, her arms tightly pinned to her sides. “It’s good to see you.” He said as he drew away, his words sounding almost sincere. “When I couldn’t find you, I thought I would miss you before I left.”

“You’re leaving, father?” She asked, and a small, unkind part of her wondered if he was leaving to plant the seed for her next bastard sibling.

“Yes. I need a good hunt.” He said, and he was already turning away from her. She wondered if this was her goodbye, if it was all she was going to get. “When you see Ned, you tell him -” As he spoke, his anger dwindled away. He sighed very heavily and looked away from her. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was too late, he was already walking away.

She wondered what she would tell him, whether she would tell him that her father was sorry or if she would tell him the truth. As she watched her father’s retreating figure, she thought briefly of Gendry and Barra, and knew what she would tell Robb’s father. She was not one to harbour bitterness for long, and her father needed to apologise, even if he was so incapable of doing so himself.

With her hurt and anger still raw, she felt the burn of it as she turned away. She left the Hall hearing the echoes of her father’s laughter and kept walking, and walking, and walking, as if to outrun her own thoughts. She kept seeing her father’s face, and Gendry’s, and Barra’s and it returned her anger to him. If only, she thought, she had been brave enough to ask him about it, to know if he even cared…

As she blindly wandered throughout the Red Keep, she couldn’t find a way to sense of the tangled web which her life had become after being in King’s Landing for only a week. She couldn’t help but think of Jon Snow, thinking of Robb’s bastard brother who he loved just as much as he loved Bran and Rickon as she kept seeing flashes of the two siblings she had not known existed. How many more existed in the world?

As she approached yet another corner, still entirely unaware of where she was walking to, she was stopped short by a sharp whispered voice. The voice hissed ‘ _Ned Stark’_ and her aimless wandering came to an end.

“We’ve got to do _something._ ” She overheard as she pressed herself against the wall, straining to pick up on the whispered conversation. She held her breath. “He _knows._ Why else would he visit Dragonstone?”

“The weather?” Another voice answered.

“ _Don’t_ – this is not the time for that. The time has come; we have to do something before he does!” The voice hissed back, but she didn’t catch what was said next. Seeing no alternative other than to confront them, Myrcella built up her courage and drew in a deep breath before she stepped around the corner, needing to face whoever it was before she lost her nerve.

She wasn’t sure who she was expecting, but what she found certainly wasn’t it. 

She was met with familiar faces, faces she would know anywhere. Faces which didn’t match the angry, whispered voices she had heard. Faces which slashed jagged holes through her resolve and her courage. She watched as the anger drained from her mother’s features and was replaced with shock, something which she was sure was mirrored in her own face.

“I – I’ve been looking for you.” She stammered weakly, her eyes flickering to the floor as though she was the one who ought to be ashamed. Even though she wasn’t quite sure what it was she had overheard, she felt a stab of betrayal pierce through her as though she did. “I thought you ought to know that I had returned from the visiting the poor… I – I should be going now. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Myrcella -”

But she didn’t say anything else – she _couldn’t_ say anything else. She turned away from her mother and her uncle, hurrying back the way she had come, wishing she had never stepped foot in King’s landing, wishing she had never come back at all.  

 

 

-     **Robb** –

 

 

The ground was thick with snow upon his return, signalling a change which had hit him just as hard as seeing Myrcella’s ship disappear over the horizon. The brief sunlit days which he and Myrcella had dwelled in were over, leaving him alone in the dark.

The days which followed passed in a strange blur, his heart heavy as he woke to an empty bed, lost without his sea of gold. His uncle’s visit did little to help, his kind words and friendly demeanour falling upon deaf ears. His mother alone seemed to understand, her eyes knowing as she fixed her gaze upon the wistful twist to his lips and the ever present pucker between his brows.

But one day, it was different. And suddenly everything changed once again. Rather than watch him with her concern so evident upon her face that it was almost maddening, his mother rushed into the castle with flakes of snow caught in her auburn hair, clutching something tightly in her hands. “Mother?” He called in alarm as she hurried towards him, breathless, with wide, worried eyes. “What is it?”

“It’s the king,” she gasped, “the king is dead.”

 

-     **Myrcella** –

 

 

In the middle of the night, she woke with a start.

She had been dreaming that she was lost; she was searching for something, but she didn’t know what, and when she called out, she made no sound. She wanted to cry out, but she couldn’t, and all was silent but the sound of her hammering heartbeat, echoing noisily in her ears. She had been running, running through the darkness, searching and searching and searching…

The shouting woke her before the hand shaking her shoulder did, sending her shooting upright, gasping as she bent over her knees. Her hand twitched automatically, reaching out for Robb, but then she remembered where she was and her movement stilled.

“Myrcella?” She looked up, and with a startled gasp, she saw Joffrey stood amongst the shadows, his arm outstretched, his fingers tightly digging into her shoulder. She stiffened, and instinctively shifted back against the headboard. His hand fell away. His face, half concealed in darkness, wore an expression she found impossible to read. His eyes, oddly round, as if in worry, flickered from her face to beside her. She followed his gaze and saw that he was watching Tommen, who slept beside her, as he had every night since her return. He was curled up in a ball, his golden head resting upon his hands. His golden eyelashes were fluttering a little as he dreamed. When she looked back to her eldest brother, he lifted one finger to his lips and held his hand out to her. “Hurry,” he whispered, “you need to come with me.”

Joffrey’s fingers suddenly wrapped around hers and with less force than she had expected, he dragged her from her bed. She hurried to keep up with him, stumbling and leaving Tommen behind as she dragged her dressing gown over her white nightdress. Joffrey, with his hand clenched firmly around hers, towed her down the spiralling staircase that lead from her rooms back down to the Keep and refused to let go, even as they hurried through the Keep, running blindly in the dark.

“Joffrey!” She breathlessly exclaimed, forcing them both to stop as they rounded the corner and reached the large, guarded doors which lead to the king’s bedchambers. “Joffrey, where are we going? What’s wrong?”

She would have expected her brother to turn on her with a sneer, to shatter her any attempt to love or trust him the way she once had when she was as young as Tommen, but instead, his grip on her hand tightened almost painfully and he turned those round, fearful eyes on her once more. And for perhaps the first time in his life, Joffrey didn’t seem to know what to say. His silence frightened her more than any of his threats ever had, and she felt a sudden urge to comfort him spark within her.

“ _SEVEN HELLS!”_

Myrcella’s gaze lifted, her attention shifting from Joffrey’s face to the door which Ser Barristan guarded. She took in the man’s strained expression, remembered the yelling which had woken her and she felt the icy fingers of fear clutch at her heart, making her shift a little closer to the brother she had once described as a ‘monster’.

“Is that father?” She asked in a small, weak voice, unable to tear her eyes off of Ser Barristan’s face, watching the way he winced whenever a curse or a shout passed through the closed doors. Another curse, louder than the rest, echoed throughout the Keep, startling her out of her stunned stupor. Myrcella dragged her hand out of Joffrey’s and reached up to gently grasp his face in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Joffrey, tell me. Tell me what it is. _Please.”_

But Joffrey didn’t speak – he couldn’tseem to speak at all – he just stared blindly down at her, dragging in short shallows breaths. He kept blinking too fast, as if to fight back the threat of tears. It made that same part of her, which ached unfamiliarly with the desire to comfort him, flare up once more. Her hands slipped away from his face and she turned numbly at the sound of a door opening.

“Good, you brought her.”

“Uncle Renly?” She was barely unable to even stutter her uncle’s name, her eyes fixed on the blood on his hands, his tunic, his sword. She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. _No,_ she thought, _not now, not yet._

“He wants to speak with you.” Her uncle said, and she opened her eyes to see that, in the light, his face was stricken and pale. Where was her ever-smiling uncle? Where were his japes? She had not seen him since she had last left for Winterfell – was this to be their reunion?

_No, no, no, no, no,_ was all she could think as she stepped away from her brother and approached her uncle, stepping through the doorway as he dragged the heavy doors open for her. At once, she could smell it - death. She remembered the smell well. The room where she had birthed her dead son had reeked of it, the smell lingering on even after any trace of it was long washed away.

Her mother was there already, stood in the corner of the room beside Grand Maester Pycelle. Her eyes flashed in alarm at the sight of her, but she remained silent, despite the grave line her lips set into. Her uncle moved to the end of the bed, hovering, as though to help, but her father grunted and waved them away.

That was when she saw him, when she truly saw him.

Laid upon the bed and hidden beneath a blanket, her father might have seemed entirely himself if not for the mud-caked boots that stuck out of the end of the blanket and the terrible wash of grey which coloured his features. He seemed to try for a smile at the sight of her and Joffrey, who lingered close behind her, his uneven breathing tickling the back of her neck.

 “Father,” she cried, perching herself on the edge of the small stool which sat at his bedside, “what -?”

“A boar… we were hunting, and…” Her uncle replied for him, noticing, it seemed, for the first time the blood that stained his hands and his clothes. He was staring down at his bloody hands, his expression unreadable.

“Leave us.” Her father said, his eyes flickering to each face but hers. He looked to Joffrey last, and again he seemed to try for something close to a smile, but he couldn’t quite manage it, and grimaced instead. She looked over her shoulder, watching her brother blink rapidly, drawing in one… two… three deep breaths before he staggered out of the room. She felt the sting of her own tears and she fought them off just as well as Joffrey did. She was glad she had not woken Tommen, she could not bear the thought him witnessing this.

Eventually, she heard her uncle and the maester leave the room, and felt her mother’s gentle hand ghost across the top of her head before she too left the room, leaving Myrcella and her father together, trapped in the room which smelt so strongly of death that it choked her.

She knew that if she looked, if she lifted the corner of the blanket up a fraction she would see exactly what the boar had done to her father, but she couldn’t. She was afraid both of what she would see and what her reaction would be to it.

“I need you to -” Her father had to stop to take a breath, and even with that, he struggled. Her hands moved to his, grasping them, clinging to them, anchoring him to her, to this place – to life. “Tell Ned he was right. The girl… we shouldn’t – he was right. Tell him I said that. Tell him… tell him I was wrong.”

Her father coughed, and then he winced. A muttered curse fell from his lips. “Paper and ink… from the table... Write down what I say. Don’t let your mother tell you any different.”

She did what was asked of her; she rose onto unsteady legs and retrieved the roll of paper and ink from the table in the far corner of the room. She settled the paper down upon her knees and waited, waiting for whatever it was he needed her to do. “In the name of Robert Baratheon, the first of his name… King of the Andals and – and all the rest – you know how it goes, girl.” She scrawled his words quickly, and as neatly, as she could, her head swimming as she fought against the sharp sting of tears. “I do hereby command Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my… upon my death… to rule in my in my stead, until my son Joffrey does come of age…”

Her hands shook as she wrote the words ‘upon my death’, leaving small splatters of ink upon the page which dried like black droplets of blood. Her father, with a wince, held out his hand for the paper and she passed it to him wordlessly, allowing him to sign. He signed his name with a shaking hand, leaving smears of blood across the edges of the paper. “Show it to the council, and then you – you bring this to Ned… you bring him back. Promise me. Promise me…”

“I promise.” She murmured as she finally lost her composure, allowing for her tears to spill over. She let them streak down her cheeks as she clutched her father’s hand. His eyes slid closed and after some time, he asked for the pain to go away. From the way that he looked at her, his eyes glassy, she wasn’t sure if he even knew who he was speaking to. Wiping away her tears with trembling fingers, she called out for the maester, and he hurried in so quickly it was almost as if he had been waiting at the door, listening. He gave her father milk of the poppy and told her that she should go, that it was not a sight for a young lady, but she shook her head. She couldn’t go. She couldn’t leave him. Not when she still had some time…

“Father,” she murmured after the doors closed behind the maester, “why did you want me to marry Robb? Why him?” She had always wondered.

“He is… he is his son…” Her father said, his glassy eyes shifting away from her for a moment. She thought, for a moment, that she saw him smile. “I knew he would treat you well… and I was right, wasn’t I? The boy has treated you well? Answer me, girl.”

“Yes, father. Robb has always treated me well.” She smiled a little to herself, though her eyes remained wistful and full of tears. She longed for the comfort of Robb’s embrace; to feel his lips press atop the crown of her head… she wanted nothing more for than for him to be there with her. He would know what to say, what to do to… She had not truly known how much she missed him until that moment.

“Because he is like Ned…” Her father whispered, his eyes falling shut. For one terrible moment, her heart stilled, fearing the worse. Pushing her long hair over her shoulder, she lowered her head and lightly rested it upon her father’s chest. She heard his heart, slow, but steady, and she closed her eyes in relief. “Leave me…” He said, sleep taking him. “Let me die.”

She lifted her head off of his chest and pressed a final kiss to her father’s cheek. He nodded to himself and she sensed that he was no longer with her, that the milk of the poppy had taken him from his pain and was taking him somewhere else… As she left the room, with her hand pressed to her lips to stop herself from sobbing, she thought she heard her father speak. She turned, and she heard him whisper, ‘ _Lyanna’._

_\--_

 

 

They were gathering like ravens outside, watching, waiting, circling… Her wary eyes watched them; burning with the tears she refused to shed. Behind a closed door, her father still lived, still breathed, and yet in their eyes, he was already dead.

She had promised herself that once she stepped through that door she would be strong; she would find a way to be strong for the difficult days to come, days which she would have to endure without Robb. She would be strong for Tommen and even for Joffrey. They would put a crown on her brother’s head and call him king before her father’s body had even cooled.

“Father… he wanted me to show this to the council.” She winced as her voice shook, the threat of tears becoming very real once more. All eyes flickered to her, watching her, examining her warily, as if she were the one who were dying and not her father. She held out the roll of paper, making sure not to look down to see the smears of her father’s blood. “Take it,” she said in a stronger voice than before, “it is his will.”

Her uncle Renly took it from her with clean hands. He had washed the blood away and swapped his tunic for another. He unrolled the roll of paper slowly, and read it aloud for the small crowd to hear. She did not miss the way that he, for just a moment, frowned, or the way that her mother scowled, or the glance which was passed from the Master of Coin to the Master of Whispers. She wouldn’t let herself miss it – any of it. If Robb’s father was to rule as regent until her brother came of age, then he needed to know what it was he was walking in to – and she would be the one to tell him. She would tell him everything.

 

\--

 

In the morning, any trace of the Joffrey she had seen the night before was gone. They lowered a crown upon his head and called him king, and with that, he was gone, a hard mask settling in as he lowered himself down upon their father’s throne.

As she approached him, to give her love to the king as she was commanded by her mother to do, he smiled slightly.

He smiled at no one but her.

“Sister.” He said, extending his hand towards her. She lowered herself into a curtsy before she rose to let her lips briefly press a kiss to the cool ridge of his knuckles. Echoes of the words she had had to sing haunted her. _Long live the king,_ they had cried, _long life King Joffrey._ Emeralds and rubies decorated his crown, the light dancing upon them in a way which caught the green of his eyes and made them exceptionally bright. He drew his hand away as she remembered the vivid blue of Barra and Gendry’s eyes; they had her father’s eyes…

“Your grace.” She murmured at last, drawing away from her brother to let the next come. It seemed that there was an unending line of those who wished to greet their new king. But Joffrey didn’t let her go. He stopped her, placed his hand on her cheek and made her look at him. Again, he smiled. Only this time, there was something darker hidden beneath that smile, leaving her wondering what it was he was thinking about, wondering what could bring her brother amusement in what should have been a time of grief.

“Would you like to hear something funny, sister? I should like to see you smile.” He bent close to whisper his words into her ear, his hand slipping away from her cheek. His smile was transforming into the sneer she remembered, an expression which made tears sting the corners of her eyes for a different reason than grief. “Uncle Stannis has declared himself king… and would you like to guess who supports this mad claim? I do believe you will find it very amusing -”

“Joffrey – your – your grace, I don’t understand. Who would dare support his claim over yours? You are the rightful heir to the -” But her brother continued to speak as though she had never spoken, pausing only to laugh at her stricken expression.

“-As will your husband, when he learns that his father is a traitor.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once an update which isn't totally late! 
> 
> In truth, I needed an excuse not to do my uni work, and this is the result. Hope you enjoyed it, and as always, thanks for reading! Also, just so things are clear - when Joffrey wakes Myrcella up, it's intended to be set right after Robert speaks to him (I was watching the show and completely inspired by Jack Gleeson's acting in that scene) and so, instead of Ned, he speaks to Myrcella - if that makes sense. Also, if you hadn't gathered it by now, Ned's leaving is set after his argument with Robert and his visit to Gendry/Barra, something which he would have done if he weren't attacked by Jaime. 
> 
> I just wanted to clear that up in case it wasn't clear :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **trigger warning** : it all basically goes to custard (abuse, incest, character death)

 

-      **Robb** -

 

 _Robb,_ his father wrote,

_Myrcella must not remain in King’s Landing. Stannis will sail for King's Landing at once, before the Lannisters can march, and though he swore not to harm her, I cannot guarantee her safety. I will tell you everything when I see you, but for now, find a way, before it is too late._

His father’s scrawl was messy, as though he had written it in a hurry. Robb looked up from his father’s words and stared into his mother’s worried eyes. The king was dead and Lannisters held the power now, and yet his father stood by Stannis Baratheon’s side, declaring him king, while the other, Renly, declared the same for himself. _There are three kings in Westeros now_ , he thought to himself as he handed his mother the hastily written letter, _how many more will emerge before all of this ends?_

 

-      **Myrcella** –

Before she handed her the roll of paper, her mother smiled at her in a soft, affectionate way – smiling at her in a way which made her feel safe, and far safer than she should have felt. Myrcella smiled back faintly.

“Thank you, sweetling.” She said as she held out her hand. She took the paper from her with that same soft smile still playing at her lips.

Her mother unrolled the roll of paper painfully slowly, and all those in the Great Hall began to mutter amongst themselves. She took her time reading it, and as she did, the whispering intensified, leaving the back of Myrcella’s neck prickling from all the watchful eyes that were locked on her. Her mother eventually looked up from her father’s final words, signed with blood smeared across his name, with an amused glint to her eyes. As a wide grin spread across her features, she didn’t look to Myrcella, but at Joffrey behind her. Her brother was sat upon the throne, his new crown sat atop his golden head. He caught her eye and he smiled in the same entertained manner as her mother had, as though she were in on a joke she didn’t know she was a part of.

“It would seem that my late husband intended for Lord Eddard Stark to be named Protector of the Realm.” Her mother’s grin never faltered, not for even a moment, and behind her, she thought she heard Joffrey laugh. Her mother raised her hands, holding the roll of paper up for all to see before she tore it in two. She tore the halves into quarters and then smiled to herself; she let the pieces fall to the floor and stepped over them as though they were nothing.

“Those were the king’s words!” Ser Barristan exclaimed, his shock every bit as evident as Myrcella’s. She stared down at the pieces of paper, seeing them not as torn bits of paper but as the final words her father had had her write down… the words which her mother stood upon and crushed into the ground. _Promise me,_ her father had said, _promise me_. Her mother had destroyed her any chance of fulfilling her father’s final wish. Her father had asked one thing of her in his life, and she had failed him.

“We have a new king now,” her mother replied, her voice so eerily calm that Myrcella found herself backing away, shuffling backwards until she was stood amongst the crowd who whispered and schemed, feeling safer there than she did under the gaze of her own mother, “and Lord Eddard Stark is a traitor. He would sooner destroy the realm than protect it.”

 

**\--**

 

First Stannis, and then Renly.

Within a fortnight, she had lost both her uncles to the call of the crown and there was no knowing if she would ever get them back. Her brother thirsted for their heads, and she was afraid of both what might come if he got his wished or if he didn’t.

They both called themselves the rightful heirs, but no one would tell her the reasons either gave as to why. Joffrey called them liars and her mother called them fools, and that was all she knew. It was all she was told. She longed to write to Robb, to ask him what he knew, but feared that what might happen if any of her letters happened to fall into the wrong hands. She was caught in the centre of two opposing forces, caught in the midst of a coming war, and there was nothing she could do but choose a side.

And she wasn’t sure if she was ready to do that just yet.

She wanted nothing more than to climb on the back of a horse and flee King’s landing, refusing to stop for even a moment, not until she saw the gleam of summer snows and the thick clusters of trees and the outline of the castle of Winterfell in the distance. She wanted to go home, but she couldn’t, not until she knew Tommen would be safe.

“My lady,” one of the serving girls called, distracting her from her thoughts as she threw upon the double doors into Myrcella’s room. The distraction was unwanted and unwelcome, “the king requires your presence in the queen’s solar.”

“‘ _Requires’_.” She laughed to herself, wondering what Joffrey could possibly _require_ from her. She found it almost amusing the crown had altered the way he spoke within only a number of days. All of a sudden, he _required_ a presence and _demanded_ an audience. He no longer spoke, he _ordered_. “Thank you for delivering the message. You may go now.”

Turning back to what she had been pointlessly filling her time with, she stared down at the dresses she had laid out for herself - something which had occupied two quarters of an hour until she had been so rudely interrupted. Each dress laid out for her was either black or some shade of grey, as she had requested. Her mother, already, had ceased any charade of mourning and resumed her life as though her husband had not just died. And so it seemed that she alone lingered in mourner’s clothes, still mourning her father while the rest of the world moved on. She remained in dark and dismal colours, not out of respect, but because, deep down, she wasn’t ready to move on.

She had resented him for what she had discovered; she had been so angry with him for all the bastards he had given the world, children who were her brothers and sisters and who would never know the comforts of the life she led, but she had loved him all the same. His death had cut her more deeply than she ever would have expected it to.

She plucked a light grey dress off of her bed and dressed quickly, and left to see what her brother ‘required’ of her as quickly as she could, knowing his impatience would intensify with every minute she left him waiting. But even if she had been at his door the moment he had asked, he would still find some reason to complain. It bothered her how different he had become since they put a crown on his head. He was a puppet, that all the court seemed to know, with his strings being controlled by their mother, but sometimes… sometimes he moved for himself, and it was those times that she feared more than anything. Her mother wanted power, she wanted things which Myrcella understood and expected from her, but Joffrey was different. She saw it in his eyes sometimes. And what she saw frightened her.

As she approached her mother’s solar, wishing nothing more than to turn back the way she had come, she heard Joffrey’s voice above all others, bellowing through the closed doors. Fear settled back into her bones, into her skin, into her bloodstream. Nothing good ever came from eavesdropping, her septa had always told her – but then again, her septa had also told her that her opinion was something for her husband to give her – and so, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu sink in, she slowly edged forwards and pressed herself against the closed doors.

Through the closed door, she could hear the sound of muffled voices. She heard what sounded like her mother and instinctively, she laid her palm against the wood and pressed lightly against it. The door, with a faint creak that seemed impossibly loud to her ears, slid open ajar and the voices tumbled through the space, the distinct sound of Joffrey’s anger filling her with dread.

 “He is a traitor! And they are loyal to a _traitor_!” Why was it that she always seemed to catch people at their worse? Why could she not eavesdrop on something kind, for once? But Myrcella’s self-pity did not last long, not after listening to her brother continue in his rage. “I am the _king_! And I say whoever remains loyal to Ned Stark should die a traitor’s death - because that is what they are – _traitors!_ ”

Myrcella slapped her hands across her mouth before she could gasp, her nails digging tightly into her cheeks to stop herself from doing something which would give her away. Her head swam. She needed to get away. She turned quickly and paled at the sight of Lord Varys standing before her. The Spider lurked in the shadows, stood silent and still, as though he had been there for some time. Her hands slid away from her mouth, knowing it would do her no good, not now that she had been caught.

“If I were you,” he said unperturbedly, “I would go now.”

Her thoughts were so very far away. She felt hollow and numb, and without being entirely aware of it, she was suddenly nodding and reaching to gather her skirts. As she turned away from Lord Varys, she could still hear her brother yelling, yelling that he was the king and his kingsguard were his to command and no one else’s’.

_Whoever remains loyal to Ned Stark should die a traitor’s death._

She began to run.

As she ran, running through the Keep as though the Strangler itself were chasing her, the only sound she was aware of was her feet hitting the floor. Her feet guided her back, taking control when her head failed her. She stumbled over her skirts, heard the rip, and refused to stop for it, or for anything. She refused to stop for the voices which called out her name, for her shortness of breath or the hammering of her heart. As she rounded the final corner, reaching the hallway which led back to her rooms, she ran blind and sprinting and half colliding into the opposite wall. There she spotted Vayon Poole.

_Whoever remains loyal to Ned Stark should die a traitor’s death._

The steward was stood by the door that lead up to her rooms, where out of some shred of kindness her mother had allowed for her to invite his daughter, Jeyne, to stay. She breathlessly cried out his name, all but falling at his feet as she came to a stumbling stop.

“Run!” She found a way to cry, her voice a stranger to her. It was too strangled, too hoarse to be her own. “You must go! Hurry!”

“Princess Myrcella – forgive me, I don’t -” He began, lowering the letter he had been reading. She reached out for him, drawing in sharp, shallow breaths, and grabbed desperately at his hand. He stared at her in alarm, stumbling over his words as he tried to remember how to address the sister of a king. The letter fell to the floor.

“They are coming!” She wept. The harsh sting of tears was too much for her to fight. She let tears fill her wide, wild eyes and uselessly blinked them away, fat tears rolling down her flushed cheeks at once. “Joff - Joffrey – I think he’s going to – he -”

“My lady, I –”

_Whoever remains loyal to Ned Stark should die a traitor’s death._

“They will kill you and Jeyne and anyone they meet! You must hide! I will find a way to get you all out of the Keep, but for now – _please_ – you must _hide_!” She grasped his hand and dragged him after her as she pushed through the doors. “Up the steps – go!”

Vayon Poole stared at her in alarm as he lingered at the foot of the winding staircase, looking at her as though she had gone mad. He seemed to be trying to speak, but she wouldn’t let him. She waved her hands frantically, desperately, and only then did he begin to move. He ran up the steps as fast as he could manage and she stuck her head out through the doors once she was sure he was gone, and watched for anyone else. She knew that there wasn’t enough time to go running through the Keep, searching for any remaining member of House Stark. Joffrey would not change his mind. He would not listen to reason. He would call the guards soon, and she was running out of time. She waited, her whole body shaking, for anyone to step down the long corridor.

“Please, please, please, please.” She whispered to herself as she prayed and prayed and prayed for someone to appear. But no one came. Closing the doors behind her, Myrcella began to run again. She had no choice, she had to do _something._ She could not bear the thought that she had not done all she could to save those who had been there with her in Winterfell, people who Robb and Sansa and Arya had grown up with, people who Ned Stark had trusted and who had trusted her father and Joffrey enough to stay behind…

She ran blindly, her feet leading the way once more. The tower of the Hand was not far. And there were so many people housed there, she thought to herself as she ran and ran and ran, so many she could keep from the her brother’s knights and their swords. But as she reached the end of the long corridor and rounded the corner, she came to a sudden stop.

There she found Heward.

Heward’s eyes met hers for the briefest of moments before the blade tore at his throat and opened it in one stroke. The blood spurted from the wound violently, splashes of red hitting her, dotting crimson over her grey gown. Heward fell heavily to the floor, his hands outstretched, almost touching her before one of the guards kicked him, forcing his body out of the way.

“Princess Myrcella, by the order of the king -” The guard began to say, but Myrcella fell to her knees, uselessly turning Heward over, searching for the life she knew better than to expect to still be there. She stared down at his face, into the eyes which had not closed, and was entirely unaware of the blood which seeped from his wound and stained her dress. She wanted to run her hand across his face to close his eyes, but as she moved, another guard stepped out and his large fingers circled her arm before he pulled hard and dragged her onto her feet.

“For your safety, my lady, the king has requested that you are escorted to your rooms.” He spoke so calmly, as though his sword were not wet with another’s blood and Heward’s open throat were not spilling out onto the floor.

“N – n – no.” She stammered as she shook her head, her hair whipping about her face. “D – don’t. Don’t -” She tore her arm from the one of the guard’s grasp and forced herself to look into the other guard’s eyes - into the eyes of the man who had killed Heward. How she wished she could stab something through his eye, using something real rather than just the daggers within her gaze.

Her anger chased her fear away. She lifted her chin, her eyes remaining locked on those of Heward’s murderer. She would not forget his face. For Heward. “That will not be necessary,” she said, “I have feet.”

She turned quickly, before either of the guards could say or do anything, and forbid herself to look back. She walked slowly, with a false air of calm, until she reached the corner. She ran after that, running down the long corridor with Heward’s blood still warm upon her. She cast a glance over her shoulder as she neared the doors to her rooms, breathing a moment’s breath of relief when she saw that neither of the guards had followed. She threw opened the doors and slammed them behind her. She stumbled over the torn hem of her dress, tearing it up the side as she quickly dragged over the table near the foot of the stairs and jammed it against the doors, letting the vases which had decorated fall and smash upon the hard marble floor. It was not much – nothing against the force of the guards if they were truly determined to break through – but it was enough to give her a little time if she required it.

She could hear screaming, screaming which was muffled through the walls, and she ran up the spiralling steps, up and up and up to the second floor. The top floor, the solar, housed only a lounging area. The space was filled with small wooden tables and pretty sofas and large doors which lead out onto a spacious balcony that looked out onto the sea. When they were small, she and Tommen would drape fine sheets over all the furniture and hide beneath them in their own little world. But without sheets, there was nowhere to hide. They would not have hidden there. If Beth and Jeyne were still there and Jeyne’s father had found them, they would be hidden on the second floor, hidden within one of the numerous rooms of her chambers. It was the only place to go.

As she reached the floor, she staggered gracelessly up the final step and hurriedly moved down the sun-lit corridor. Light streamed through the tall windows, the sun reflecting so beautifully off of the sea, as though the Gods themselves were playing some sort of cruel jape on her, making the world seem as though it were well when, truly, she did not know how it would recover. The Keep would live up to its name. The walls would be red with blood once her brother’s knights were finished.

“Beth?” She called, her voice shaking with uncertainty. “Jeyne?”

Even in her small tower, seemingly so far away from it all, she could hear the screams. She thought of Heward again, of the way he had looked at her just before the end. Was it hope, she had seen? Or was it defeat? She lifted her hands and scrubbed again at the blood which was splattered down her. It was on her dress, on her skin, beneath her nails. _Gods,_ she thought. Why did she have to go back? Why could she not have followed Jeyne’s father up into her rooms and never known the sight of it at all…

As she cursed quietly under the breath, she thought she heard a noise. A whimper. She turned quickly, startled by it and slammed the door behind her. She heard a gasp, and there, hidden behind the door, was Beth and Jeyne and her father. After a beat, and releasing a shrieking sound, Beth hurried forward and threw her arms around her.

“Myrcella! Oh thank goodness!” She cried, her arms wrapping so tightly around her that she could barely breathe. But it didn’t matter, and she hugged her friend back, relief washing over her. “We keep hearing screaming – what’s -”

“I can’t explain right now. I’m – I’m sorry. You need to hide.” Jeyne was sobbing, her arms wrapping tightly around her father as she wept. Vayon Poole looked up at Myrcella, looking to her for guidance, and she panicked once more. She pointed frantically to the first place her mind went, to the garderobe. The guards, she assured herself, would never dare look in there, fearing they might find a privy and shame the king’s sister. “Jeyne, go and hide with your father in there.”

At once, Jeyne and her father, still clutching each other, ran to the small room, and after the wooden door had closed behind them, she turned to Beth. “Beth, you -” She began to say, but then she heard it. She heard the doors being battered on the floor below, the table putting up no chance – as she had foreseen – against the guards. Beth grabbed at her hand, her frightened eyes filling with tears as they heard shouting and the sound of heavy footsteps. She tore her hand from Beth’s and pushed hard at her shoulders. “Under my bed – go!”

Beth hesitated, moving only when Myrcella pushed her again. She crossed the room, the sound of her sobs echoing in Myrcella’s eyes, and fell down beside her bed. She pushed herself under the bed just as Myrcella heard the heavy footsteps reach her floor. She snatched up a dress which hung over the back of a chair, a colourful choice she had angrily refused several days ago, and then moved across the room, her trembling fingers loosening the strings of her bodice as she draped the dress across the edge of the bed and over the top of the dark dresses which were still laid out there.

Four armed guards burst into her room and she clutched the front of her dress to her as though it might fall, releasing a shrill, startled cry she did not have to fake. She recognised only one of the men, a knight of her father’s kingsguard, Ser Boros Blount. His blade was the only one which was clean, but she did not know if she could count that in his favour.

“May I ask what you are doing breaking into my _private_ rooms? I do not believe my brother – the _king_ – will be too happy when he hears about this!” She snapped indignantly, reaching out to grab one of the thin coverlets from her bed. She dragged it around her shoulders and covered herself. She hoped her anger was colouring her cheeks so to make it look like she was blushing.

“The king ordered for his sister to be kept in her rooms.” One guard said, his hand resting atop the pommel of his bloody sword. If any of them knew who she hid within her room, she wondered what they would do, if they would be tempted, even for just a moment, to put her to the sword too. After all, did this not make her a traitor?

“It is for your safety, my lady.” Another guard said and it seemed for a moment that he alone was capable of speaking to her with a trace of kindness, but his cloak was of the City Watch and it was bloodier than all the others. She looked away from him, fixing her gaze instead on Ser Boros, the knight who her had uncle had once japed about and called craven.

“Where is this danger? I see no danger.” She did not miss the flicker of irritation which crossed the face of one of the guards, but it did nothing to stop her. She wrapped the coverlet around herself more securely and took a step towards the four guards.  “A man’s throat was cut open before me by a member of the guard – and yet you say I am to be kept here for my _protection_? It would seem that you, good Sers, are all that I need protecting from, so I would like you to leave. Now.”

“The king -”

“If my brother wishes to make orders about my wellbeing, he will say them to my face.” She lifted her hand and dismissed them in a manner she had seen her mother do hundreds of times. The guards didn’t quite seem to know what to do, awkwardly muttering amongst themselves, but after she turned away, turning her back on them to feign interest over the dresses which were laid out on her bed, she heard them eventually leave. She did not move, not a single inch, until she heard the heavy footsteps descend the staircase and heard the doors bang close behind them. Only then did she relax, the tension lifting from her shoulders as though a heavy weight had been taken away from there.

Beth crawled out from beneath her bed after Myrcella whispered her name, her red-rimmed eyes seemingly seeing the blood which stained her skin and her clothes for the first time. She squeezed her eyes closed and a river of tears flooded her cheeks.

“What happened? Who – who-?” She cried, her voice catching at the end. Myrcella shook her head – she couldn’t say his name – and she stepped forward just as Beth did, their arms instinctively wrapping around each other. As she fought away the thought of Heward and all those she had been unable to save, she could feel Beth’s tears soaking through the sleeve of her gown and felt how violently she shook as she sobbed, and she vowed, to whatever Gods there were and whoever might be listening, that she would never let anything happen to her, or Jeyne, or her father. She would save them, as she had been unable to save Heward and all the others.

And then she would take her brother, and she would go home.

As she blinked away her tears and stepped away from her friend, she knew what her choice was, and what side she stood on.

King’s landing was her home no more.

“I’ll get you home,” she vowed, “I promise.”

 

\--

 

She was dreaming – and though she knew she was dreaming, she didn’t care. She was dreaming of Robb. The dream had plucked her out of the nightmares which usually plagued her, giving her a moment of peace before she had to wake again. In her dream, she was riding to Winterfell with Tommen by her side, and though she couldn’t see him yet, she knew that he was stood waiting for her as she rode back home to him. And then, as the sun broke through the clouds, she saw him. He lifted her hand, waved at her and said –

_“Princess Myrcella, the king demands your presence in his chambers.”_

Myrcella woke with a start.

Very much like the night her father’s cries of pain had woken her, she sat bolt upright in bed before she crumpled, gasping for breath, over her knees. And just like that night, she soon found that she wasn’t alone in the darkness. As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she thought she heard something and lifted her head to catch a glimpse of something moving in the corner of her eye. She barely had time to scream before a hand firmly pressed against her mouth.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” A familiar voice muttered and as her eyes grew slowly adjusted to the darkness, she saw who it was. When her eyes rose to meet his, the Hound lifted his hand from her mouth and took a step away from her. The scarred side of his face was facing away from her, making him seem – just for a moment, at least – a little less terrifying.

“What are you doing?” She gasped. “Why are you in here?”

“The king demands your presence in his chambers.” The Hound repeated, and she looked away, feeling a sharp stab of annoyance as she realised that he was to blame for waking her. She had been so close… just a few more seconds and she would have been with Robb again. She returned her gaze to the Hound and could not help but glare.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she snapped, “what could he possibly want?”

But he wouldn’t have told the Hound that. Joffrey was the king, he didn’t explain, he just ordered and demanded. And so, with a heavy sigh, Myrcella threw back her coverlet and slid her legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll need to dress. Wait outside.”

As she dressed, she could not stop her hands from shaking as her anger subsided and fear took its place. Her uncle Tyrion – the only person in the Keep she could trust with this – had been true to his word and he had helped her get Jeyne and her father out of King’s landing, but Beth still remained behind. He had told asked her to give him time, that it was easier getting two out than three, and out of gratitude, she had accepted that. But as she dressed, all she could think was what if they had been discovered? What if Jeyne and her father had never escaped from this awful place? What if she had made a mistake trusting her uncle?

The Hound was silent once she stepped out of her chambers, wordlessly leading the way through the dark. As she hurried behind him, she stared at the back of his head. He was her brother’s closest thing to a friend, something which she had always regarded as strange. Then again, who would want to be friends with Joffrey if they had any kind of choice in the matter?

It did not take long to reach her brother’s chambers, but it was long enough for her to worry and imagine every possible way in which Jeyne and her father had been caught, killed or imprisoned. _They’ll be fine,_ she repeated to herself, _uncle Tyrion promised._

“Joffrey?” She called the Hound pushed the door to his chambers open for her. He shut the door behind her once she stepped over the threshold, leaving her alone with her brother. Her forehead broke out in a cold sweat as she stepped further and further into the room. It was so dark, there were only a few candles lit. “Did you wish to see me, brother?”

But there was no answer.

She passed by the empty bed, untouched and unslept in, and moved slowly throughout the space of the room. The echo of her footsteps was all there was to hear.

“Myrcella.” And suddenly he was there, leaning against the wall as though he had been there all along. Her brother grinned at her and she tentatively returned the expression, smiling so weakly that she wasn’t sure if he would be able to notice. “You’ve kept me waiting.” He said before he pushed away from the wall, “I’ve got a surprise for you, sweet sister.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Joffrey held up his hand. “I wasn’t finished.” He said, clicking his tongue in what sounded like annoyance. She shrank back habitually, and her back pressed against the bedpost. “They’re trying to take my throne from me,” he declared and she knew at once who he was talking about, “people who we used to trust… father’s brothers are now our enemies.” Her brother’s hands clenched into fists, his grin transforming into a scowl. “I need to know who I can trust, Myrcella.”

“You can trust -”

But Joffrey didn’t let her finish.

“Bring her in.” He yelled, and the door which he had been leaning beside opened. One of the guards, a man she didn’t recognise, stepped through the door and after him, he dragged something. He dragged someone by their long dark hair through the doorway and pushed them out into the room. A pale, shaking figure stumbled into the centre of the room, a thin white nightgown hanging off of their thin, beaten frame. They looked up, the curtain of long hair parted to reveal their face…

“Beth?” She cried, barely able to recognise her friend’s bruised, bloodied face. Her right eye was swollen and bruised so badly it was almost black. The side of her face had been sliced as though with several small knives and the wound was fresh, blood still running down her cheek like dark, crimson tears. Her friend did not cry out in relief at the sight of her, but shrink back, as though Myrcella were the one to blame.

“We found her hiding in your rooms. Do you have something you need to tell me, sister?” Joffrey stalked around Beth, taunting her as a beast would with its prey. He reached out, running the back of his finger down her bloody cheek. Beth whimpered, and it made her brother smile.

“This isn’t necessary, she is no traitor! She’s my friend!” She exclaimed before she could bare the sight of it no more and hurried forward to drag Beth away from her brother and then behind her. Beth’s forehead fell heavily upon her shoulder and she began to sob, her hands tightly clutching the back of Myrcella’s arms.

“Your friend?” When Joffrey laughed it was a cruel, mocking sound.

“She is my servant.” She quickly corrected, and Joffrey’s eyes flashed back to hers, a scornful smirk still playing about the corner of his mouth. “She’s a nice girl; she doesn’t bother me with endless chit-chat like most servants do. And she is the only one who can do my hair as I like it. But I will send her away if that is what you want. A friend means nothing when it comes to matters of blood.” Myrcella feared and mistrusted her brother, but that didn’t mean she did not know him.

“Dear, sweet sister.” Joffrey ceased his stalking of the room and halted in front of her, his hand reaching out to stroke her cheek in the same manner he had touched Beth. Behind her, the girl continued to sob, her fingers pressing so tightly into her arms that there would be marks there later. “Why would I let her leave?”

“Because I am asking you. Please.” She lifted her hand to mirror his action. She lightly ran the tips of her finger along his cheekbone, her touch earning her a faint, ghost of a smile.

“Only for you,” he muttered, “only for you.”

She dropped her hand from his cheek, but he caught it before she could draw it back to herself. He took possession of her hand, his grip too tight, too forceful to be considered affectionate, and tilted his head a little to the side, observing her with a curious expression crossing his features. “You will not deceive me again.”

She shook her head. “Never.”

“She may go. I don’t suppose your _friend_ will want to be here when the ships arrive.” Joffrey released his hold on her hand, and she drew it quickly back to herself, clutching it to her chest. She saw, already, that there were small bruises forming around her wrist.

“Ships?” She asked before she could stop herself. “What ships?”

“Uncle Stannis is here.” Though Joffrey smiled as if it were a joke, she felt herself grow suddenly cold. If her uncle was attacking King’s landing with the help of Ned Stark, what would come of them if they won, or if they lost? If Robb’s father died, then Robb had would surely have to take his place. And if her uncle won, what would come of them? Would he simply let her mother and her brothers walk out of the Keep alive? _Better dead than exiled,_ she remembered that someone had once said, and she feared what it could mean for her family.

She wanted to ask more questions, to find a way to get her brother to tell her the whole story, but she felt Beth clutch her even more tightly than she had before and she remembered why it was she was here.

“Well,” she said, “I do hope he won’t be visiting for long.”

When Joffrey laughed, she seized the opportunity. She lifted herself onto her tiptoes, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and grabbed a secure hold of Beth’s hand. She towed the girl from the room, wishing her brother, the guard and the Hound a good night – even though she would rather they sleep on a bed of nails than have a pleasant night’s sleep.

She remained silent after she had closed the door behind her, wordlessly guiding her friend though the dark of the Keep until they had returned to her room. Beth didn’t try to speak, she only whimpered. Her quiet sobs cut through the silence and seared Myrcella with guilt. Once the doors that lead up to her rooms were slammed closed behind them, she whirled around, crying out once more at the sight of her friend. “Beth – I – I am _so_ sorry. I’m so sorry.” She cried, despairingly tucking the long curtain of hair behind her ear so she could see what they had done to her.

Once the fear was gone, the impact of it hit her even harder and guilt tore at her.

The blood had dried, though the wounds remained open and raw. The bruises which covered her had darkened and littered her shockingly pale skin, leaving her black, white and blue. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what she _could_ do. She wrapped one arm around her friend’s shoulders and guided her gently up the steps, keeping her eyes focused on anything but the sight of the tears running down her cheeks, tears which met her wounds and stained her face with faint streaks of blood.

Beth crumpled the moment they reached the top of the stairs, her eyes falling closed as her body suddenly grew limp and heavy. Myrcella had to drag her the rest of the way, heaving her as gently as she could up and onto her bed. There she lay for some time, her arm slung over her face, mercifully hiding the worst of the bruising.

As unconsciousness took her friend, Myrcella filled a bowl full of warm water and grabbed a cloth from the cupboard near the bath, returning to her chambers to gently wash the blood from Beth’s cheek. Once the blood was gone, she saw that the wound was all the more worse. Slashed in two jagged lines across her cheek, she feared that one of the wounds, the worst of them, would scar.

It took her some time to wash the blood away from the wounds on her face and the marks and cuts which littered her body; the damp cloth stained with crimson by the time she was done. She stared down at the bloodstained cloth for some time, trying to hold back all the emotions which fought for dominance within her. She was angry, angry that the brother she had once loved had become a monster, and she was sad that the brother who had lain with her in sunlit gardens for so many happy summer days was gone, but most of all, she was crippled with guilt… guilt over having brought her with her, having let her stay and for the fact that, even for all he had done and for the monster he had become, a part of her still loved her brother and probably always would.

As she carefully brushed stray hairs off of Beth’s forehead, she sighed. Guilt won the war and took possession of her, drowning out everything else. Had she insisted, Beth could have left with Jeyne and her father. If only she had refused her in the first place, Beth could still be in Winterfell, and neither of them would have known this torment.  Myrcella drew her hand back to herself and dropped the bloodstained cloth she had been holding into the bowl of water, watching it drown before it rose back up to the surface…

“’Cella?” Beth’s soft voice distracted her from her thoughts, and she looked up from the floating cloth she had been staring at to see that one of Beth’s eyes was open. One of her eyes was so badly swollen that she couldn’t seem to open it at all. Myrcella set down the bowl of water on the floor beside her and shuffled a little closer to the edge of the bed. “Will they ever let us go home?”

“I’ll – I’ll talk to my uncle. He’ll know what to do.”

Beth’s eyes fell closed once more, and she nodded a little, as if to herself, before unconsciousness took her once more. She had not given her anything for the pain, but it was as though she had. Her friend’s breathing grew even and heavy after only a few minutes and a sort of calm spread across her features, though did not entirely etch away the sadness that was caught in the crease between her brows.

Myrcella pushed herself up onto her feet and sluggishly crossed the room. She sat wearily down on the window seat she had always loved so much as a child and rather than stare out of the window as she once had done, she watched Beth, silently promising her that she would not forget and she would not forgive. Joffrey was her blood and her brother, but something’s… something’s could not be forgiven.

 

 

-      **Robb** -

 

“My lord,” one of the guards, breathless from running, suddenly appeared in the doorway, “a wheelhouse was just spotted.”

Robb’s head shot up at once, his eyes first seeking out Theon - who simply shrugged, as though he couldn’t have cared any less – before he looked to the guard and demanded how far from them it had been spotted. “Not far, my lord. It should be here within the hour.”

He couldn’t have stopped the hopeful grin which pulled at the corners of his mouth even if he had wanted to. As he stepped away from the table he and Theon had been stood around, pouring meticulously over the information his uncle had supplied them with, he wondered whether it was Myrcella. He wondered whether she had sent a raven which had never arrived or if she had wanted to surprise him. How he hoped that it was her; living without her had been like living with a wound which refused to heal, a wound which the eye could not see.

Time was slipping away from them, and yet, he was here and she was there…

He ran through the castle and into the courtyard, waiting by the main gate until he saw the outline of the wheelhouse through the morning fog. His eyes never left it for a moment, not even when Grey Wind ran to his side and sat there, watching and waiting as he was; ever ready for the day Myrcella came back to them.

But when the wheelhouse slowly made its way into the courtyard, the faces which emerged from it were not what he had expected. First came Jeyne Poole, and then her father. Lastly, and gripping the frame of the wheelhouse’s door, was Beth Cassel. Only, she was not the girl he remembered, not the girl who had waved at him from the ship’s deck with her arm wrapped around his wife. No, the girl which emerged from the wheelhouse was an entirely different being all together.

His mother had entered the courtyard by that point, and she hurried to meet the returning members of their household while he remained transfixed, his eyes locked upon the black bruising which circled the girl’s eye and the fresh scar that ran down her cheek.

“What happened?” He heard his mother ask, and Vayon Poole shook his head solemnly.

“They’re all dead.” The steward said. “By King Joffrey’s orders.”

His mother’s eyes flashed to his and he wasn’t sure what to say. His father had written to say that the majority of his household had remained in King’s landing, choosing to return to Winterfell by road rather than by sea, but Robb knew never would have left them behind if he knew something like this would happen. Joffrey, it seemed, was to be more feared than they had expected. Now, more than ever, he knew that he had to find a way to bring Myrcella home, before the worst could happen.

“Why?” His mother gasped. “Why would the king order that?”

“The king and his mother named Lord Stark a traitor to the realm for aiding Lord Stannis, and the king saw it fit to – to remove what was left of us.” The steward said in a quiet voice, looking very pale as he recounted the tale to them. His mother encouraged him to continue. “Lady Myrcella saved us. We would not be standing here if not for her.”

Robb looked up at that. And for a second time, his mother’s eyes flashed to his.

“Lady Myrcella said that she overheard the king’s orders – and somehow, she managed to find us before the king’s men did. She risked a great deal; she hid us in her chambers for several days before she and her uncle smuggled Jeyne and I out of King’s landing. Beth… Beth met us on the kingsroad.” All eyes flickered to Beth then, and the poor girl lifted her head, meeting only Robb’s gaze.

“Who did this to you?” He asked, though he feared the answer.

“The king,” the poor girl whispered, “and a guard. They found me hiding and – and -”

But Beth didn’t finish what she was saying.  

As Ser Rodrik, whose eyes went very wide and whose skin went suddenly pale at the sight of his daughter, hurried out into the yard, a hush fell upon them all. Ser Rodrik clutched at his chest, staggering for a moment before he spoke her name. Beth, who had begun to cry, closed the space between them and was quickly enveloped in her father’s arms. Robb had to turn away, remorse slashing through him as he realised that all of this could have been avoided if he had simply said ‘no’. If he had begged, Myrcella would never have left.

Running his hand through his hair, he thought of Myrcella and he sighed. He feared the very worse. She had never spoke much of Joffrey, but of the way she winced a little, thinking he did not notice, when he traced his fingers over the faint scars which littered her body, he surmised that she did not love him the way she loved Tommen. He could think of no other person who could do such a thing to her, and get away with it. And he still remembered, even if she refused to talk about it.

He remembered finding her stood, close to tears, in a dark, empty corridor during her first visit to Winterfell. She had been bleeding, and there had been marks around her wrist. Finger shaped marks. She had said she had fallen, and even Bran had known she was lying. A part of him, even then, had somehow known who was to blame. Something in Joffrey’s eyes told him all he needed to know. That he wasn’t the sort he wanted marrying his sister, and wasn’t the sort who Myrcella deserved to share blood with.

“Myrcella -” In time, he found the strength to say her name. “Is she alright? Did the king – did he –” But the other words, those he could not say.

“Yes,” Jeyne quickly answered, “Lady Myrcella is fine.”

Jeyne’s words sounded sincere and the steward’s daughter seemed to think she was telling the truth, but when Beth looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes filled with new tears, he knew better than to let himself believe her words were true.  Myrcella was in danger every moment of every day that she was in King’s landing, and he needed to get her out, before it was too late.

 

-      **Myrcella**   -

 

With a king for a brother, a queen for a mother and a future Warder of the North as a husband, a part of her felt as though she should have felt safer than she did. And with one uncle serving as acting Hand of the King and the other the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, she ought to have felt secure, but she didn’t. She felt far from it.

Her uncle was knocking at their front door, and she did not know if they were strong enough to answer his call. He had arrived faster than any of them had anticipated. His ships and his soldiers had arrived before any of them could act. Her grandfather and his army were still en route from Casterly Rock and their allies seemed few and in short supply. They needed the Tyrells, she had heard her uncle say to her mother, but the Tyrells belonged to Renly now.

Stood in the courtyard, with the wind violently lashing at her long, loose hair, she stared across the sea. The clouds overhead were thick, dark, and fraught with energy. Lightning and thunder would not leave her waiting long. She tasted salt on the tip of her tongue, and it chased away the taste of blood. She stared at her uncle’s ships from behind the walls of the courtyard, safe, if only for the moment.

“Myrcella, it’s time.” She felt her uncle’s hand touch her side as he pulled lightly, but persistently at the sleeve of her dress. She turned unwillingly, and the narrowed green eyes which had been searching for an emblem of a direwolf amongst burning, crowned stags, fell upon her uncle and the badge he wore upon his chest. “It’s not safe for you to be out here.”

“Do you have a plan, uncle, or are we all going to die on this day?” She found herself muttering as she turned her back to the sea and to her uncle’s ships. The sun had long set, and night was upon them. The ships would be upon them soon. “Because I don’t think I fancy dying. Not today.” Danger was at their door, but she told herself that she would not die, not without Robb. She felt as though she could bare anything but not the thought of never seeing him again. _There is only one place where I shall die and that is here, beside you._

“Of course I have a plan. Who do you think I am?” Her uncle said, as a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Oh? Pray, do tell.” Humourless laughter escaped her as they left the courtyard side by side. Her uncle’s chainmail and the steel in her expression were so out of place amongst the beds of roses they passed.

“But that would ruin the surprise.”

 

 

\--

 

 

The battle seemed to rage for a very long time, though the swords and the screaming of dying men were but a distant sound to them. The women and children were locked away, and there they hid, awaiting their fate. Her mother had made it so very clear to whoever would listen, phrasing it in the worst possible manner for the frightened flock. If they won, then they would live. But if Stannis and his army won, then they would be better off slitting their own throats rather than live long enough to see the soldiers break through the barred doors. They would be taken from the castle, their children would be slaughtered and the wives of fallen men would be raped and left as good as dead.

Myrcella sat with her arms wrapped loosely around Tommen, who had somehow managed to fall asleep, and with her eyes fixed on the floor. She was careful not to look out of any of the windows, in case she saw something she would rather not see, just as she paid strict attention not to let her gaze slide over to her mother, who, having drunk too much wine, was making a fool of herself. Spitefully, she was mocking the people she had invited into the holdfast as her guests. For a time, she had attempted to spark an argument with Myrcella, bitterly remarking on how the outcome of the battle favoured her on both sides, unlike the rest of them. She hadn’t answered her; she had simply tightened her grip on Tommen and looked away, momentarily feeling almost ill with the knowledge that her mother was right.

If Robb’s father truly was allied with Stannis, then no harm would come to her, and she would see to it that nothing happened to Tommen either. She would do her best to convince them to spare her mother and her uncles and even Joffrey, but she knew her influence only went so far. And the same, she hoped, applied to Ned Stark if Joffrey won the battle. He was her husband’s father; he could not be treated as harshly as her brother might have wanted. If he did not die on the battlefield, perhaps she could convince him to pledge allegiance to Joffrey – and then she could go home to Robb.

Myrcella closed her eyes, a ghost of a smile touching her lips as she let herself hope. She returned to the scene she had dreamt of, where she rode towards Winterfell with Tommen beside her and where Robb stood waiting for her. She thought of the way they would embrace, and how her heart would swell, so happy to be home. And Tommen would find a home there too, and she would never let him go.

And then suddenly, there was a sound, a thunderous boom which rattled and shook the stone tower. Startled, panicked cries erupted all around her and Tommen, who had been resting so peacefully, murmured in his sleep. She brushed her hand across the top of his head and at once, he lapsed back into a deep sleep.

Her mother laughed, and threw her hands up in the air.

“I wonder who that is!” She japed, grinning spitefully when Myrcella lifted her head to glower at her. Two young girls had begun to cry in the corner of the room. All she could do was smile sympathetically and try to soften the glower from her expression. But her mother, who continued to laugh, did nothing to help the irritation that flashed across Myrcella’s features.

“Mother, please. Control yourself.” She muttered, though she spoke loud enough for her mother to hear. But the queen only thrust her hand out and ordered for her cup to be filled with more wine. _More wine, more wine,_ it reminded her of her father.

As some time passed, with more and more wine being given to her mother, she tried to lapse back into the stillness and the silence she had borne before, but her patience was gone. Her hands had begun to shake with the need to move. She didn’t want to be cooped up, waiting to know if she lived or died. She wanted to know.

“I need some air.” Myrcella found herself announcing as she shifted out from beneath Tommen’s sleeping form. She pushed herself up onto her feet and crossed the width of the room. It was foolish of her, she knew that, but she would rather know what danger was coming and willingly face it rather than sit and wait for it to find her.

“Myrcella, you will not leave this room!” Her mother yelled at her retreating back, but she was too late, and the guard who silently stood with them in the room was too slow. She hurried through the doorway once she pried it open and ran down the empty, dark corridor.

The Keep was so eerily empty, and in the dark she found no one until she reached the balcony she had been looking for. Without hesitation, she threw open the doors and stepped out into the night. The air was thick, but not from the aftermath of the storm which had passed only hours before. And across the sea, she saw the cause. The sea burned. It was wildfire, she realised as her eyes scoured the ships which were caught in the inferno. Her uncle had said he had a plan up his sleeve, and she wondered if this was it.

Even from where she stood, she could hear the screams.

She had never seen anything quite like it before, and she hoped she never would again. She could hear the clash of steel meeting steel, the cries of dying men and felt the heat of the fires on her face. She wondered how long the battle had been raging, how long the fight had been going on while she and all the others had been hiding away. She wondered if their prayers and their hymns did them any good.

“What are you doing?” She turned at the sound of a familiar voice, turning away from the battle which was waging beneath her to face her brother. When she had envisioned seeing him again, she had expected to be angry and to be engulfed once more in fury.

But it was difficult for her to see the same person who had relished in the pain of her friend as she caught sight of him, stood in armour, with genuine fear in his eyes. It seemed that her heart was so often too tender, too forgetful - too weak. Any trace of her anger drained out of her and she forgot, for a sweet moment, about Beth. As Joffrey stepped hesitantly towards her, she mirrored his action until they were stood beneath the arched threshold of the door.

“Why aren’t you with mother?” She thought she heard him ask, but she wasn’t listening. She was staring at the blood on his armour. She lifted her hand, the tips of her fingers lightly running across the splatters of blood. The blood was fresh, it was still warm.

“Why did you leave the battle? Are you hurt?” Though she tried, she couldn’t be angry with him, not when she knew he was going out to face all those ships and all those swords. He could die. Kings died in battle all the time. And if Joffrey died, then Tommen would be king until someone came along and killed him too… and then it would be her. She shuddered at the thought of being queen, and of the corpses she would have to step over to reach the throne.

“No, I’m not hurt. Don’t be stupid.” He answered her brusquely, but his eyes were still fearful as they flickered away from hers. She tried so desperately to cling to the memory of Beth, of her bruises and the pale pink scar which ran across her cheek, and the way she had wept as she disappeared into the wheelhouse that carted her home. She tried to cling to her anger and the betrayal which cut her deeper than she had ever thought it could, and the fear which he had forced her to endure for so many years. But she couldn’t. And for that, she would always be sorry. Sorry for Beth, sorry for Tommen, sorry for all those who Joffrey had harmed in his lifetime and for all the terrible things she could not help but to forgive him for.

She loved him and she hated him. He was a monster and a beast, but he was still her brother. The same blood flowed through his veins as hers. For all the hatred she bore towards him, he was still a part of her, no matter how hard she tried to deny it.

“Try to be careful.” She found herself saying. “Don’t go charging out into the thick of it like father would. Stay safe. Stay with the Hound and Uncle Jaime.” And though she knew her words would only irritate him, she hoped he would listen. She hoped, because she wasn’t ready to lose anyone else yet. She had lost her father and her child seemingly all at once. She wasn’t sure how she would bear losing both her brothers at once, one to death and the other to the throne, especially when she was without Robb.

Quickly, before he had the chance to say something hurtful or unkind, she took a step towards him and wrapped her arms around him, briefly pressing her cheek to the cold metal of his armour. She drew away only when she felt him – fleetingly - return the gesture. His arms tightened around her for a brief moment, and then he released her and stepped away. When she looked up, she saw that the fear was gone from his eyes, but not, she sensed, because of her.

“When the battle is won, should I give you Stannis’ head or Ned Stark’s?” Joffrey asked her, and just like that, the anger was back. It returned to her so abruptly that it startled her. She blinked, and the soft green of her eyes darkened; the bright jade colour burning like the wildfire that blazed behind her. “Which would you prefer, sweet sister?” Her brother said and the gentle hands which had traced lightly the outline of the roaring lion suddenly pushed hard against him. He stumbled back in surprise. The unkind sneer which had been spreading across his features drained away and he gaped at her in disbelief.

“What is the matter with you? Why do you have to be such a _monster_?” She snapped, furiously stalking towards him. She pushed him harder than she had before, and he stumbled back again. Furious thoughts raced through her head, leaving her temples pounding with a headache. Why did he have to be her brother? Why was she cursed to love to people who hurt her, all because of the blood which ran in their veins? Myrcella pushed at Joffrey’s chest again, but he didn’t stumble this time. He stood his ground. Anger flashed in his eyes, but it was nothing to rival hers. “Why do you always have to hurt me? I am your sister – your _only_ sister – you are meant to love me!”

Joffrey reacted before she had the chance to push him again. He moved as though to shake her by the shoulders, but his hands found her hair instead and he pulled hard, dragging her close to him. It was only when his arms locked around her that she realised what he was doing.

“I don’t hurt _you_.” She thought she heard him say into her ear, and she found herself laughing in disbelief as she struggled to escape his embrace. She squirmed free and put four long strides between them before she spoke again.

“Is that so?” She said with harsh laughter, which was so similar to his, ringing through her words. “And so you mean to say that what you did to Beth and all the members of my goodfather’s household – that was out of love?”

“Yes.” Her brother said, as though it were that simple. “They were traitors.”

“And what about _Tommen_? He’s just a little boy! What good ever came from hurting him?” She felt the harsh sting of tears prickle the corners of her eyes as she thought of all the times Tommen had crawled into her bed with fresh tears in his eyes and bruises littering his body. And she thought of the day her sweet brother had found a fawn and had found it dead later on. Joffrey’s hands had been red with the poor creature’s blood. How they still loved Joffrey, even after all of that, she would never know.

“Because you love him more than me!” Joffrey yelled back at her, with his hand raised as though to strike her as he strode forward, effectively removing the space she had created between them. She shrank back automatically, but her resolve remained unbroken.

“And you wonder why?” She hissed.

When Joffrey moved again, she was expecting a blow. She was expecting him to hurt her as he had done when she was younger. She expected him to twist her wrist like he used to when she said the wrong thing, or push her so that she would hit her head, or pull at her hair. Joffrey had never hurt her in the same way he had hurt Tommen, but sometimes, when she looked at the little, silvery scars which were left behind, she couldn’t help but think that what he did to her was just as bad. But rather than hurt her, her brother’s hands found her shoulders and drove her back against the rail of the balcony. She hit it hard, but that wasn’t what hurt her.

His fingers dug into her arms as something changed in his expression. She opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late, he had already moved. His lips crashed down upon hers. His teeth grated painfully against her lower lip and she tasted blood. His mouth was moving roughly against hers as she reached for the blade which hung from his armour, tearing it from its sheath as his hands rose to twist painfully in her hair.

She struck his armour hard with the flat side of the sword, and he stumbled away from her, spluttering. When he looked up at her, she saw that his lips were red, red from the force behind the way he had kissed her and red with her blood. She lifted the sword.

“You will _never_ touch me like that again!”

“I am the _king!_ You cannot threaten me!” Joffrey bellowed back at her, lifting his hand to shove the sword away from him. It slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor. After this, and after all he had done, Myrcella did not know if she would ever be able to forgive him – or if she even wanted to. As she glowered at him, her lips still stinging, she was not sure if he was her brother anymore.

“I hope you die in battle.” She snapped as she shoved him out of her way, he moved easily, stumbling back to hit the frame of the door. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes flickering briefly to the blaze of the wildfire. “I hope Stannis kills you.”

She thought she heard him call out her name one last time as she stalked away. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look back.

She had meant her words.

 

-      **Robb**  -

 

The raven came in the middle of the night. It woke them all from their sleep.

_Stannis Baratheon is dead. Your father has been captured._

_The Lannisters have won._

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

At the feast, Rains of Castamerewas sung all evening.

Tommen had once asked her what the song meant, and she hadn’t been sure what to say. She had been innocent then. She hadn’t understood. She had thought the song was sung for Lannister lions and their bravery until Joffrey told her the true story behind it. _They were slaughtered,_ he had whispered into her ear, _every last one of them for defying grandfather. No one will make that mistake again._

Her eyes flickered to where her grandfather said, remembering her brother’s words with a shiver passing through her. The great and victorious Tywin Lannister was staring ahead; his eyes fixed on the rowdy singers who had let wine go to their heads. She wondered if he heard the song and remembered House Reyne, if ever he thought of them and felt sad.

_Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear._

Somehow, she sensed that he didn’t.

She cast her gaze around her, taking in the merriment and the laughter which felt so out of place considering what had transpired only five days ago. Everyone was laughing and dancing, smiling as though nothing had happened.

She stared at the singers as she looked around the great hall, and the lords who had sent their men to die, and at the missing place where her uncle Tyrion should have sat. She had heard that he had been injured, that her grandfather was now the Hand of the King, but no one would tell her where he was, or what had happened.

Just as no one spoke of Eddard Stark.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember it clearly.

Her uncle Jaime had been the one to tell her.

His armour and his cloak had been bloody. There had been dirt and ash matted in his hair. He had put on hand on her shoulder, and told her not to be afraid, that the battle was won and Stannis was dead. She didn’t have anything to be afraid of anymore, he had said, and for a moment, he had looked as though he were trying for a smile.

But when she asked of Ned Stark, he had lifted his hand off of her shoulder and looked away.

_Captured,_ he’d said, _he’s in the dungeons._

The battle had been won by her grandfather, she had been told. He arrived with his army just in time, and with his arrival, had come Stannis’ death. She wasn’t sure who struck the final blow; some say her uncle himself did it, killing yet another king, while others claim that it was the half man, the true hero of the battle.

And her brother had not died like she wished. He hadn’t even been hurt.

She glanced at him for the first time in days and she found the polite smile she had been wearing slip from her lips, a scowl taking its place. There he sat, enjoying the feast with his new crown sitting comfortably atop his head, as though she had imagined all that had transpired both between them and on the battle field. She heard that he hid in his chambers during the battle, only emerging when he heard of Stannis’ death. She wondered if he thought of all the men who died for him, and if he ever asked himself what it had all been for.

“Please, excuse me for a moment.” She murmured as her mother and her grandfather rose to dance. Her mother had never looked more beautiful than she did as she twirled and laughed. Her laughter was a sweet music, but a sound Myrcella couldn’t bear for long. She finished what little there was left of her wine and stood up, brushing her fingers across the top of Tommen’s head as she passed. 

_In a coat of gold or a coat of red;_

_a lion still has claws._

She had never been to the dungeons before, but the place wasn’t exactly difficult to find. Her problem would be knowing where to go once she got in. Though she knew that the dungeons had four different levels, each differing from each other, she had only a faint idea of where Robb’s father would be kept.

She was afraid of what kind of state she’d find him in, it was what worried her the most. She worried that he was injured, and needed remedies she was unlikely to be able to get her hands on. All she had been able to do was tuck a roll of bread into the pocket sewn into her dress, alongside a wine skin full of water and a purse full of gold and silver coins.

As she approached the dungeons, she could only hope that it was enough.

When she reached the large, locked door that led to the dungeons, she lifted her hood and stopped in front of the guard who was stood before it. As the guard opened his mouth to speak, probably to yell at her to go elsewhere, she reached down and unzipped the pocket hidden in her skirts and drew out the fat purse.

“Take me to see Lord Stark.” She commanded as she held out the purse. The guard’s eyes dropped to the coin purse with immediate interest. “I will speak of it to no one and so should you.”

For someone who was as prepared for this as Myrcella was, it seemed very clear to her as the guard pocketed the gold that she hadn’t counted on actually being allowed to go into the dungeons. She had thought the guards would not be so easily swayed, but she supposed, as she had suspected, the battle had changed everything.

The guard unlocked the door and after a moment, she stepped through after him.

Even with a torch held out in front of her, the dungeons were shockingly dark, and grew darker still. What little she knew about the dungeons had come from Joffrey’s attempts to scare her; he had told her that there was a torture chamber somewhere in the dungeons and that when you went there, you never came back.

In the dark, she counted every step and every turn they came to. First there were twenty steps, a right turn and then a staircase, and then it was up and up until the third floor. The third floor – something about that stuck in the corner of her mind. It was important somehow.  It only took nine long strides until the guard stopped, turned to her, and banged his fist against a wooden, windowless door.

“This is it?” She asked in a small voice, and the guard nodded. He reached for the keys which hung off of his armour and unlocked the large, silver lock on the door. He kicked it open and gestured for her to go inside. “Thank you.” She murmured as she stepped through the doorway, but the guard merely grunted before he slammed the door closed behind her. She wondered if that was his way of saying ‘you’re welcome’.

She lifted the torch higher, the heat of the flames warm and welcome upon her face. The cell looked to be small, and was entirely without windows or any form of light. The dark had never scared Myrcella before, but the thought of being trapped in here, without the light of her torch, made her shiver. “Hello?” She whispered, fear making her voice catch just a little. “Lord Stark?”

She heard something move beside her as she delved further into the cell, a rustling from within the shadows. She turned quickly, and lowered the flaming torch. There she saw, sat shielding his eyes, was Robb’s father. The torch slipped from her grasp and cluttered to the floor, though the fire blazed on as she staggered forward, gasping.

“Myrcella? No! What are you doing here?” She dropped to her knees at the sound of her goodfather’s voice, her hand pressing to her mouth as she searched for any sign of the torture her brother had once told her about. He still had his nose, he still seemed to have his hands and he had his tongue. But still, she could not stop herself from reaching out and grasping his hand, just to make sure he was real.

“Are you alright?” She breathed, dropping his hand to throw her arms around him. She couldn’t help it. She embraced him tightly for a moment before she drew away, holding him at arm’s length as she checked for any sign of harm or disease or anything that might take him from her. She wouldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t let Robb lose his father. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine.” He said, but he didn’t look it.

She released his shoulders and drew away to reach into her pocket and draw out the bread and water. She had thought that Tommen might have seen her tuck the bread into her skirts, but her sweet brother hadn’t said anything. She held out her hands and he took it from her hurriedly, but gratefully. As she watched him, with shaking fingers, unscrew the top of the wine skin, she wondered how long it had been since he had eaten and drank anything. He had been in the cell for five days. And five days was a very long time.

“Why are you here?”

“I had to make sure that you were alright -” She began to say, but he shook his head.

“No, no - Robb was meant to have brought you back to Winterfell.”

She stared down at her hands. If Robb had been trying to rescue her, then where was he? She pushed aside the thought, reminding herself that it was her own fault she was here, that she had willingly walked into this.

“He was going to send a ship from White Harbour, to bring you back before… before Stannis –” Robb’s father stopped then, and looked up at her, his hands pausing as they worked on ripping off a piece of bread. “Where is Stannis? Did he -?”

“Stannis is dead.” She quietly said, looking down at her lap as she spoke. Because her uncle was deemed a traitor, she had been forbidden to mourn him. She had lost both a father and an uncle within a month, something which weighed heavily upon her heart, and yet she wasn’t allowed to show it. She was supposed to be glad – _grateful,_ even.

“He fell during the battle,” she continued, “and what was left of his army fled, to join Renly’s cause from what I hear…” She wondered how long it would be before it was Renly’s turn. If she lost her uncle Renly, she would have nothing left of her father but the bastards she had found in Flea Bottom.  How long would it be before she began visiting them, just to be able to see his eyes again?

Silence lapsed between them, as Robb’s father ate and she stared down at her lap, thinking about her father’s bastard children.

“Where are Sansa and Arya?” She found herself asking the moment the thought came to mind. If they were still at Dragonstone, then they would be in danger. Her brother had sent some knights there; to make sure her uncle’s widow and his daughter didn’t attempt to flee before it was decided what they were doing to do with them.

“Safe. Jory was taking them north when I left with Stannis and his men.” He answered quickly, and she breathed a breath of relief. Robb’s sisters were safe, and Sansa would never have to marry Joffrey. “You shouldn’t be here. Varys will know. Someone will tell the queen.”

“What’s the worst they can do to me?” She laughed quietly to herself, though she knew it wouldn’t be long before Joffrey did something terrible, something to make her regret her words. He wouldn’t do to her what he had done to Beth – he wouldn’t dare - but there were other things he could do; terrible things to make her wish she had let him do whatever it was he had been trying to do on that balcony. Would he take it out on Tommen? Or would he find another way?

“I need you to tell me something – and please, promise me that you will tell me the truth.” She paused, and her goodfather nodded solemnly. “Is it my mother’s fault that my father is dead?”

“No,” he answered after a moment of hesitation, “it’s mine.”

“Does it have something to do with Gendry and Barra?” She asked, finally asking the question which had been bothering her for so long. Ned looked up at her, and he frowned. He didn’t seem to know what to say. “Heward told me that you, as well as my uncle and Jon Arryn, had visited them and he took me there before – before he -” But she couldn’t say it. The words wouldn’t come out.

“It has everything to do with them.” He said before he looked away from her, tucking what was left of the bread into the pocket of his tunic. She would have to come back with more or find some other way to smuggle him food. “There is something you must know, but it isn’t something I would want to burden you with. There… there is a reason why Stannis declared himself as king.”

“And why he claimed to be the rightful heir?”

Ned nodded. “Stannis and Jon Arryn were investigating Robert’s illegitimate children, and during their investigations, they – as I later did – uncovered the truth. And the truth of it is that Joffrey has no claim to the throne.”

He paused, as if to ready both himself and her. She wondered if she ought to prepare herself too, even though she wasn’t sure what it was he was about to tell her. He drew in a deep breath before he spoke again. “He is not Robert’s son and you… you are not his daughter.”

She was suddenly reminded, as she stared at her goodfather in alarm, of the games she had played with her friends as a child. They would go hunting around the Keep for something their septa had given them clues to, and she had always been better than it than her friends, all who gave up when it got too difficult. _You’re clever Myrcella, put the pieces together and you’ll understand._ But this wasn’t a game, and she couldn’t put the pieces together. Perhaps she didn’t want to. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but with Stannis dead… someone needs to know.”

Struck silent, all she could do was stare.

His words were cruel, but she knew him and his nature well enough to know that the hurt wasn’t intended. She almost opened her mouth to ask if he knew who her father was, but she couldn’t; the wound of her father’s (her supposedly false father, how painful the very idea of it was) death was still too fresh, too painful.

“What would you have me do?” She hated the way her voice quavered. She hated it almost as much as she hated the truth which had been revealed to her. But what she hated most of all, was that it made sense.

All of it made so much sense that she wondered why she hadn’t realised it for herself.

No love had existed between her mother and father. Her mother had hated him, and he had loved a girl long dead. It explained why Gendry and Barra existed, and why they bore his likeness and she and her brothers did not. She knew she should ask whether he knew who her true father was, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“Leave King’s landing now, while you can.”

“And what about you?” Shaking his head, Ned placed his hand over hers. When he looked as though he was going to speak, she spoke first. “I _cannot_ leave you here. I can convince my brother to let you go, I know I can.”

She thought of the way Joffrey had crushed his lips to hers and shuddered. But for Robb’s father, she would look her brother in the eye again and she would find a way to smile and speak to him as though she did not despise him. “I need to get back to the feast before they start looking for me – but I’ll return, I promise.”

As she turned to go, she heard him call her name from the darkness.

“Thank you,” he said, and she smiled sadly, knowing she had no reason for his gratitude.

If it weren’t for her family, he would still be with his, and neither of them would ever know what it was to be within the dungeons which no one, supposedly, ever left once they entered. Whether it was in the mind or just the body that they were imprisoned, she was not sure - though she knew which of the two different kinds of cages she was trapped in.

She’d been trapped all her life, and Robb had set her free.

 

\--

 

In the morning, she was summoned.

They were all there, waiting for her. Her mother was the only one who smiled. The day was warm, but their expressions made her mother’s solar cold. By her mother’s desk, stood the maester and to his right were Lord Varys and the man called by the name of Littlefinger. They watched her with cold, unfriendly eyes.

“Sit,” her mother said, “please.”

She lowered herself obediently into the chair which sat opposite them. She clasped her hands together on her lap to hide the way her fingers trembled. If they saw even the faintest glimmer of weakness, they would use it. They were unforgiving and they were cruel. What they were doing to Ned Stark – who had been their friend - was proof of that.

While her mother remained seated behind her desk, the others began to move around the room, circling her the way ravens did around a corpse. She sensed, as she looked at the guard who stood conveniently in the way of the door, that she had walked into a trap, and that she had willing entered a new sort of cage.

“Lord Eddard Stark is a traitor.” Varys began, his strong, flowery smell irritating her nose. He stepped around her, his light footsteps making barely any sound, with his hands clasped behind his back. “He rallied with the late Lord Stannis Baratheon to steal your brother’s throne.”

“You must understand the seriousness of this.” Grand Maester Pycelle continued, lifting his bowed head. His thin, papery skin wrinkled even more as he frowned at her. “You do understand, don’t you?” 

“Of course she understands.” Her mother snapped, and the maester bowed his head. “The question is - what are we going to do?”

She pressed her lips together and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I cannot have my daughter married to a traitor’s son! What sort of mother would that make me?” Her mother exclaimed, laughing quietly to herself, as though she had said something funny. The others smiled politely, and uncomfortably. “If you’re allowed to return, who is to know what they might do to you! I will not have you put back in the enemy’s hands, Myrcella.”

Myrcella opened her mouth to speak, to protest, and her mother help up her hand. “Unless,” she began, “the boy does what his father must also do, and bend the knee to Joffrey.”

Ned’s words echoed in the back of her mind. _He is not Robert’s son and you… you are not his daughter._ He wouldn’t bend the knee to Joffrey, and neither would Robb if he knew that his father was chained up in a dungeon.

Drawing in a deep breath, Myrcella steadied herself. “What would you have me do, mother? Lock up my husband alongside his father? Why not lock me up as well? What’s stopping you? If Robb is a traitor, then I must be too!”

“Child, there is no reason to be distressed -”

“I am _not_ a child.” She angrily exclaimed, silencing the quivering old man. She glanced up at him and glared, her manners and her courtesies long forgotten. “I am the king’s sister. You will treat me thus.”

The corner of Cersei’s lip twitched, hinting a smile before she lifted wine to her lips.

“Myrcella, my sweet, you must write to your husband. The word of his father’s treason will not have yet reached them, so it should be best that it comes from you.” Her mother had already pulled a roll of paper from the draw in her desk. She pushed it towards her and gestured for her to pick up a quill. “Write exactly what I tell you, Myrcella, so I know there is no room for confusion.”

 

-      **Robb** -

 

_Dear Robb,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_I am so very happy to be home with my family. The weather is very fine, the days long and warm. It is a gift from the Gods, to Joffrey after his glorious victory. I am being treated with such care; it would seem that I am much missed when I am away._

_I bid you and your mother come to King’s Landing at once, as to be able to see me and your Lord father, and so that you can pledge your allegiance to my brother, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms._

_When your loyalty is reaffirmed, we will see what will come of your father and have some understanding of what kind of mercy he deserves. The unwise failure to do so will reaffirm the charges of treason against your father and in turn, yourself._

_I hope to see you soon,_

_With all my love,_

_Princess Myrcella Baratheon._

It was only when Luwin re-entered the room, the creak of a floorboard all that gave away his silent entrance, that Robb looked up from the letter in his hand.

“Treason?” His frown deepened as his eyes returned to the letter. When the said letter had been placed in his hands, and he had heard her name carried on the messenger’s lips, he had been… happy. He’d smiled, thinking he held news of his wife and her return. He had been waiting for news and he had foolishly hoped that she had written to say that the boat he had sent for her had arrived and that she was coming home to him. “Myrcella wrote this?”

“It is her hand, but the Queen’s words.” The maester reaffirmed what a part of him had already suspected. He should have known. He should have believed in her and known, because not even the name she signed spoke of her. “You’re summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the new king.”

Robb frowned. “Joffrey puts my father in chains, now he wants his arse kissed?”

Images of Beth Cassel’s bruised and scarred face flickered in his mind’s eye, followed quickly – and painfully – by the memory of Myrcella pushing his hand away from the scar on her thigh, telling him in a quiet voice that it was nothing to think of, just a mark from a fall and nothing more. But he had known, as he had always known, that she was lying to him, and that her brother had done more to her than she could speak of to anyone. She couldn’t even speak of it with him, something which hurt most of all.

“This is a royal command, my lord. If you should refuse to obey...”

“I won’t refuse.” He said, his eyes still fixed on Myrcella’s words. He tried to picture her writing it, but couldn’t muster up the image. His Myrcella wouldn’t have written this. “His Grace summons me to King’s Landing; I’ll go to King's Landing. But not alone.”

“The Banners are all assembled, my lord. They await your command.” Luwin’s words earned a smile from Theon, though what it was he found joy in Robb would never know. All he could think of was his father, and his sisters, from who no one had heard a word of since the battle of Blackwater, and of Myrcella, who was being kept a prisoner there just as much as his father was.

He met Luwin’s gaze evenly, knowing exactly what had to be done. “They’ve all sworn to defend my father, have they not? Now we see what their words are worth.”

When ravens streaked past the window, calling their Banners to them, he looked back to Myrcella’s letter. He was almost angry with himself, knowing that he should have known the words were not hers at once. His wife would never speak of the weather, just as she would never call herself _Princess._ Nor would she call herself Myrcella Baratheon, she had said as much herself.

_“My mother,”_ she had murmured, twisting in his arms to kiss his cheek _, “still calls me a Baratheon. Every letter is addressed to ‘Princess Myrcella Baratheon’.”_ Myrcella had laughed, her fingers threading through his _. “I think she likes to pretend that she’s writing letters to me from the other end of the castle, that I’m in my room with my toys and that I never married anyone. Especially you.”_

“Especially _me_?” He had laughed in response.

But he had thought nothing of it until then. He wondered if she had done it on purpose, if she had been trying to tell him in her own, private way, that her words were not her own. For a brief moment, he smiled. Knowing that he still had his wife’s love would be enough to see him through the coming days.

He told himself, as he lowered the letter over a candle, that it would be enough until the day he saw her again. It had to be.

 

-      **Myrcella**    –  

 

She had been searching for him for days, asking endless amounts of questions which got her nowhere. When his name was uttered, it was as though he didn’t exist. Every face closed off to her, and every answer she received told her nothing and gave her nothing but more questions.

It was only when she found the sellsword, the man her uncle had stumbled across in an inn somewhere in the Riverlands and instantly befriended, that she finally received the answers she had been searching for for so long.

It had been four days; four long days of wondering whether her uncle had succumbed to his wounds, or worse, had never even had them at all and that he had died on the battlefield. She feared the latter most of all, knowing that it would come hand in hand with the knowledge that all those she had asked in her family were lying to her (at least, even more so than they already were).

In the far end of the Keep, tucked away near the south courtyard’s gardens, lay a small, dusty room that was hidden away behind barred doors. The sellsword knocked, thumping the wood hard with his clenched fist.

“Who is it?” A voice called back, and the sellsword sighed impatiently. “Bronn?”

“You’ve got a visitor, so open the bloody door.” She shot the sellword, Bronn, a sharp look, but the man simply shrugged. After a moment of hesitation, she heard the locks on the door click and it swung open.

When her uncle emerged from the shadows, she had to press her lips together to hold back her gasp. She wouldn’t let herself flinch, nor would she let herself gape at the sight of him. The scar was long and bloody and new, it ran from his temple to his jaw and cut right across the nose which looked as though it had been sticked back on. She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself, before she entered the dark room.

“I’m so sorry,” she did not so much as speak the words but expel them, “no one would tell me where you were! I would have come right away, but no one would tell me anything. I’m sorry -”

“It’s alright, Myrcella.” Her uncle said calmly, trudging to the back of the room to drag up a chair. He patted it, signalling for her to sit before he retreated to his bed and sat on the edge of it. She lowered herself onto the chair slowly, her eyes fixed on her uncle’s scar. “Two visitors in one day, what a lucky man I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“First your mother, and now you. I’ve been alone for days, and now all of a sudden, I am a prized commodity.” She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. Something in his tone made his words sharper than they should have been; cutting her with guilt he had no right to make her feel. “I’m afraid, however, that you’ve caught me at a bad time, Myrcella. I’m off to see my father.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner, but what was I supposed to do? No one would tell me where to find you.” She shot back, but her words lacked the edge she had been trying for. She sighed, and had to look away. She knew she had no reason to feel guilty, but she couldn’t help but feel it. “I didn’t come here to argue,” she quietly said, “I came to see how you were.”

“I’m not dead yet.” Her uncle replied, sounding more like himself. She lifted head, seeing that his lips had twitched into a ghost of a smile. “So, what has been happening in my absence? Is everyone dying of boredom?”

She sighed for a second time. “Not exactly.”

“Ah, now that wounds me, Myrcella. Humour me.”

As much as she longed to laugh and jape and pretend that all was well, her thoughts, very much against her will, insisted on returning to Robb’s father. Robb hadn’t responded to her letter, and whatever spies her mother had in her arsenal told her that the Starks were very much in Winterfell and not en route to pledge their allegiance. The look on her mother’s face when she had informed her of the news had stung.

“ _It looks like he has abandoned you, after all.”_ She had said, so smug and so entirely unaware of her deeply her words cut. She liked to think that if her mother knew how much she hurt her, then she wouldn’t say such things, but sometimes… sometimes she wasn’t so sure.

“I need your help, uncle.” She forced herself to say, the words small and weak. She hated to ask him for help when he had endured so much, but there was no one else she could turn to. “I’m sorry to burden you with this, but I don’t trust anyone else.” She echoed the words she had uttered when she had begged him to get her friends out of King’s landing, and the recognition of it flickered across his face.

“Do you have any more friends hidden under your bed that I should know about, Myrcella?” Her uncle japed, though his mocking tone did not match the serious expression upon his face. He knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t ask for help if it wasn’t necessary.

“Ned Stark was captured after the battle and is being held in the dungeons. I need to find a way to help him, and you’re going to help me. Please.” She added the ‘please’ as an afterthought, and it made the sellsword, who she had not known was lingering by the door, laugh.

She glanced over her shoulder briefly, and shot him an exasperated glance. “Would you mind letting me speak to my uncle in private? I’m not going to kill him, I promise.”

Bronn the sellsword lifted his hands in false surrender before he stepped out of the room, whistling something familiar as he went. It hit her moments later that he was whistling ‘Rains of Castamere’, something which sent a violent shiver through her. Gods, how she hated that song. She waited for the door to close before she looked back to her uncle.

“I’m sure if you bat your eyelashes and flatter Joffrey’s ego enough, no harm will come to Lord Stark. If you beg for him to be exiled to the North or to the Wall, he cannot refuse. Even Joffrey cannot be entirely blind to reason.”

She shook her head, “I can’t. I can’t talk to Joffrey.”

“What did he do? Drown a couple of kittens? You’ve always forgiven him in the past.” Her uncle said, and to her dismay, he was right. Myrcella had always forgiven Joffrey; she had forgiven all manners of things. She had even forgiven him for what he had done to Beth, because he was her brother and she loved him. And deep down, though the wound was fresh, she knew she would forgive him for this.

She would _always_ forgive him, and she hated herself for it.

“He kissed me in a way a brother shouldn’t kiss his sister, and I told him… I told him…” She closed her eyes with a sigh. She hated to re-live the moment. She wanted to scrub the back of her hand against her lips, as she had done so many times already, so she could forget the feel of his mouth there. “I said that I wanted Stannis to kill him. So, I think it’s fair to say that, even if I can forgive him, Joffrey will never forgive me.”

For a long time, her uncle was silent. Eventually, she had to open her eyes to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep or left the room. But there he was, sat in the same place as before, with a queer expression on his face.

“I wouldn’t think much of it,” he finally said. “He has ever touched you like before?”

“No,” she mumbled. “Never. He would hurt me sometimes… but never like _that_.”

Her uncle grew quiet again, ponderous.

“It has been almost two years since you saw him last, and you are much changed. I would think nothing of it.” She sensed, as her uncle lifted his head to meet her gaze, that he was sweetening the truth for her.  “I would wager that he is merely finding it difficult to look at you, almost a woman grown, and see the young girl who left here instead of someone he is meant to desire.”

_Someone he is meant to desire._ Myrcella’s nose wrinkled at the thought.

But she made herself see the sense in his words, and nodded.

“There’s something else,” she mumbled quietly, and her uncle’s gaze lifted, “it’s something that someone told me. This person - who won’t be named - told me that… that Robert isn’t my father. Or Joffrey’s. Or Tommen’s.” She paused, and looked down at her hands. She hated how they trembled. “Is there any truth to that?”

When her uncle looked at her strangely, his expression giving her nothing, she rephrased her query. “It’s just… I’m not angry. I can understand why she would… why she would…”

She had to inhale deeply, gathering her scrambled thoughts together.

“I mean… I understand. I get it. There are many things – kind things - to be said of my late father, but to call him a loving husband would be a lie. He would sometimes beat her, did you know? He mocked her too. And never, I fear, did he ever love her.” She stared down at her shaking hands, privately hoping that the lover her mother had taken to her bed had treated her better than Robert Baratheon ever had.

“Myrcella -”

“If I were treated that way, I see no shame in taking a lover...” She mumbled, looking up at last from her hands. Her uncle’s expression had changed, and hidden behind that monstrous scar, was a familiar look of fondness.

“My dear niece,” her uncle said, pushing himself off of the edge of the bed and onto his feet, “this family does not deserve you.”

When she smiled slightly, he stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “Now, I really must go,” he said, “mustn’t keep father waiting.”

He kissed her cheek once more before he left, leaving her alone in the dark, dusty room.

The sellsword went with him, still whistling that same morbid tune.

_But now the rains weep o’er his hall, with no one there to hear._

 

\--

 

 

On the morning of Joffrey’s name day, the comet which had blazed across their skies for weeks was hidden by clouds, the day hot with a storm coming. The air, thick without the comfort of a cool breeze, was suffocating as she descended the steps to the tourney grounds which were tucked safely behind the Keep’s walls.

The comet, they said, was the Gods way celebrating her brother’s magnificent victory. The smallfolk called it King Joffrey’s comet, a symbol of his glory, there in the sky for all to see. _As if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honour,_ Ser Arys had told her that morning when he came to escort her from her chambers.

She stared up at the great comet, the blazing red only partially visible through the thick gathering of clouds, and thought otherwise. She had heard that the comet was a sign of war and of bloodshed. And worse still, uttered in whispers, there was talk of dragons.

_And you know what that means,_ she had heard a servant whisper, _dragons mean death._

In the royal box, her brother sat, hidden from where she stood beneath the shade of the canopy. As she reached the final step, she saw that there was a seat reserved for her there, behind him and next to Tommen. She approached warily.

“Myrcella!” Tommen called on her approach, beaming and excited. He was bouncing up and down on his chair, bursting with excitement over his news. “Myrcella, did you hear? I’m to ride in the tourney today. Mother said I could.”

She pressed her lips together, concealing her worries.

Her mother was notably absent, as was expected.

Her mother was furious. Lord Tywin had taken his army out of the city, and her uncle had gone with him. The Northerners were still marching on the city, but Renly was closer, and was a more imminent threat to them. Myrcella tried to keep up with the snippets she heard, as to arm herself with the knowledge of what was happening around her, but she knew so little of war that she often failed to understand. She would have to learn – soon, as knowledge, as she was always being told, held its own form of power.

“Do try to be careful,” Myrcella found herself saying as she sat down next to Tommen, her sweet brother’s smile faltering at her unkind tone of voice, “not all of us can be as strong and as valiant as Joffrey. I wouldn’t want you making a fool of yourself.”

_Because you love him more than me,_ Joffrey had said to her. So, for Tommen’s sake, she would have to make him think otherwise. If Joffrey thought she loved Tommen less and him more, then perhaps he would spare him, and find some other means of revenge. She didn’t care what happened to her, as long as Tommen was left alone.

“Yes,” Joffrey said with a disdainful smirk, “try not to fall off this time.”

Ser Arys, who had walked her from her chambers to the tourney, bowed beside her. She looked up, surprised. She had forgotten he was there.

“Pray pardon me, Your Grace. I must equip myself for the lists.”

Joffrey waved his hand in dismissal. “Do you hear?” He called over his shoulder once Ser Arys had gone. “The Beggar King is dead.”

She frowned, fearing for a moment that he meant Renly.

“Viserys.” Joffrey explained, turning in their silence to face both her and Tommen. He smiled callously, the tale amusing him. “The last son of Mad King Aerys. He’s been going about the Free Cities since before I was born, calling himself a king. Well, Mother says the Dothraki finally crowned him. With molten gold.” He laughed. “That’s funny, don’t you think? The dragon was their sigil. It’s almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor husband. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him.”

She looked away, the sting of his words harsh and to be expected.

Still no response had come to the letter her mother had made her send, only news of Northern forces marching south. All seemed to delight in the thought of Robb turning his back on her, forsaking her.

It so often felt like a bad dream, leaving her wondering when she was going to wake up. And it felt as though the walls were slowly closing in on them. Renly was said to have the largest army in the Seven Kingdoms and lingered in the Stormlands, as if waiting for something… 

Joffrey, however, not noticing – or caring – that she was wounded by his words, took offense at her silence.

“Did you not hear what I said?” He turned to her and snapped.

She forced a smile onto her lips. “Yes, that’s very clever. You are so very clever. And what of our uncle, the traitorous Lord Renly? Shall we set some stags upon him and see what happens, dear brother?”

When Joffrey laughed, it was a cruel, malicious sound. She saw Tommen flinch beside her. She curled her fingers, digging her nails into her palm, so she would not reach out to take his hand. _I am a good sister,_ she told herself, _I’m doing this for him._

She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. _For Tommen, for Tommen._

A blare of trumpets sounded, and she made herself open her eyes.

“Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard,” she heard a herald call and the joust began. She’d never been much a fan of tourneys. When she was younger, she longed to be like her brothers, who were allowed to join in and have fun with horses and swords and lances, but then one day she heard that a man had died and all her wishes quickly died.

She didn’t watch the fighting either, she cared little for it. Joffrey, who lounged back in his seat, made a noise of annoyance. “This is a feeble show.” He said, and the knight next to him muttered in agreement. The Hound was gone, she had heard. Joffrey’s one friend had left him; he had proved craven and supposedly fled during the battle.

“Lothor Brune, freerider in the service of Lord Baelish,” the herald called from below him, distracting her brother from his complaining. “Ser Dontos the Red, of House Hollard.”

There was a pause, and no one appeared. The herald called again, and a man staggered down the steps beside them, his helm clattering noisily to the floor. “Here I am!” The man yelled as he chased after his helm, clumsily knocking the thing further away from him with his foot. Some laughed and others called out japes and insults, but no such reaction was quite like Joffrey’s.

The look in her brother’s eye was worrying, his expression darkening with each moment that passed. The drunken knight seemed oblivious. The man even laughed nervously when he raised his head, seeing that his king was on his feet, watching him.

“Sorry, your grace.” The man said, fumbling with his helm. “My deepest apologies.”

“Are you drunk?” Joffrey asked, and though his tone was deceptively calm, it sent shivers through her. Her eyes were on her brother’s face when the knight, Ser Dontos, tried to deny his inebriation, watching as his scowl ever darkened and his eyes flashed with irritation. Only Joffrey would see this man’s drunkenness as a slight.

“A cask from the cellars!” Her brother called. “I’ll see him drowned in it.” 

She wanted so desperately to call for him to stop, to find a way to save the man, but all she could do was watch as, dragged before the royal box as though he were a singer about to perform a song, the knight was drowned in a barrel of wine. The knights, who held him down, who forced his head into the cask of wine, didn’t seem to bat an eye at the task.

It didn’t take long for the man to die, but it took long enough. She had made Tommen turn away the moment she had seen the wine, and her brother was mercifully saved from the sight of it, with his face pressed into her shoulder.

When her brother drew slowly away from her, he blinked, and then he smiled.

“Do I get to ride against the straw man now?” He asked, and Joffrey looked over his shoulder at him, his momentarily elation over watching Ser Dontos die, fading. His brief smile slipped away, a sneer taking its place.

“No,” Joffrey snapped, “the tourney is finished.”

Tommen’s pale brows crinkled together, a stubborn determination shining in his eyes – one she did not want to see there, not today, at least. Not when the sound of laughter over a man’s death was still ringing harshly in her ears.

“I’m supposed to ride against -”

“Not today.”

“Tommen -” She started to say, but her brother cut her off.

“But I want to ride!”

“I don’t care what you want.”

“Mother said I could ride.”

Quietly, and in the hope that it would shut them both up, she agreed with Tommen. “She said.” She earned a sour glare from Joffrey, one she chose to ignore. “Where’s the harm in it? It’s not like he can be any worse than these gnats.”

“Gnats.” Joffrey repeated with an air of disgust, looking out across the tourney grounds. It worried her to see him so irritated. When her brother was bored and irritated, it never fared well. It hadn’t for Ser Dontos, and she doubted it would for her. “Fine,” he finally relented, “bring out the quintain, Tommen wants to be a gnat.”

When Tommen ran off, shouting in joy, to be readied, her eyes were fixed on the red puddle on the floor left from Ser Dontos and his cask of wine. She wondered, had she stayed in King’s landing, if she would be like the others, and laugh at the sight of a man being drowned. She wondered, if Tommen stayed too, if he would one day see joy in it too, and behave as Joffrey did. The thought made her shudder.

But in spite of this, and the cold shivers which shook her, she couldn’t help but smile when Tommen rode out on his pony. There was a lion of Lannister and a stag of house Baratheon dancing together on her shield, and someone had fashioned a small pair of antlers onto his straw opponent’s head. She watched, with her lips pressed together to hide her smile, as he raised his small blade and shouted for Casterly Rock.

She watched in silence as her brother dug his heels into his pony’s side and started towards the straw opponent. Tommen waved his sword as he went, his laughter lost amongst the shouts and cheers of the lords and ladies who watched, and struck the quintain’s shield. She lifted her hands to applaud, but froze when the quintain spun and the padded mace it held swung around.

The padded mace hit Tommen over the back of the head hard, and her brother fell from his saddle and a cloud of dust when up around him when he toppled to the ground. She didn’t hear if he had cried out; the cheers and shouts which had spurred him on dissolved into laughter, with Joffrey laughing the loudest.

“Oh,” she cried, and scrambled from her seat to run to him.

But Joffrey, as she hurried past him, caught her by the wrist and forced her back.

“Stay.” he demanded. “Stay here.”

She heard the words which were left unspoken. _Stay here, with me._

She knew better now than to disagree. Silently, and with Joffrey’s fingers still tightly digging into her wrist, she lowered herself into the chair beside him. Joffrey looked away from her, his expression smug and satisfied, but he didn’t yield his hold on her. He held onto her wrist as though for dear life, and she knew without question that there would be marks to show for it later. But she didn’t let it show. She wouldn’t let herself. She smiled as she stared ahead, watching as Tommen was helped off of the ground and his pony was led off of the grounds.

Septa Eglantine – who she would have to sincerely thank later – hurried down the steps to the tourney field and was with Tommen, wiping the dirt from his brow, when he was helped from his armour and taken away.

Noticing her gaze, Joffrey turned to her. “That was amusing, don’t you think?”

“Very amusing.” She murmured quietly in response, looking away from Tommen’s retreating form to Joffrey. “It is a shame, however, that he chose to make an embarrassment of himself on your name day.”

“Yes,” Joffrey muttered, looking away from her. “It is. But you’ll find a way to make up for Tommen, won’t you, sister?”

His grip on her wrist tightened, “After all, I am your king.”

The heat and their closeness and the way he looked at her was too much. Her head was swimming, and her stomach churned uncomfortably. She needed to get out. She leaned towards Joffrey, closing the space between them to press her lips to his cheek.

“I wish you joy on your nameday, brother.” Joffrey glanced at her as she drew away, his face changed by her touch. She lifted her hand and ran it through his hair. He seemed to like that. “This heat is too much for me. If you’ll excuse me…”

She tugged her arm and eventually, his grip lessened.

It was only when she was back in her chambers, leaning back against the door she had locked, that she felt as though she could breathe. She scrubbed her hand across her lips, rubbing away any trace of what had happened that night on the balcony and what she feared might have to happen again…

_Gods save me._

 

\--

 

 

She went to her brother before the feast, knowing it was her only chance to catch him in some semblance of a good mood. She paced outside of his chambers for some time, playing with a loose thread on her skirts as she built up her courage, before she lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the door.

Inside, she could hear him shouting at someone; at some poor, hapless servant, no doubt, and when the door swung open, a teary eyed girl stumbled past her and disappeared down the corridor, weeping.

She plastered a smile on her face.

“A friend of yours?” She asked, gesturing over her shoulder.

Joffrey scowled, but said nothing.

They were as different as the sun and the moon, as unalike as fire was from ice, but she knew her brother, she understood him. She was not blind, as others were, to the darkness within him. She saw it, she knew it, and she had been with it and close to it all her life. Her brother was not a monster, but simply weak to what was within him. He could not fight it. Perhaps he did not know how to fight it.

And because she knew him, she knew better than to tell him what he ought to know – things which someone with any amount of common sense would know to do without having to be told – and she knew there was only one way for her to meet the end she wanted.

She sat down on the edge of his bed and mustered up her sweetest smile.

“Joff, what are you going to do with Sansa’s father?”

Joffrey looked down at her, his expression bored.

“I don’t know.” He huffed as he fastened the buttons on his tunic. She pushed herself onto her feet and replaced his hands with her own, deftly working the small buttons better than he could. “Show him _mercy,_ I suppose.”

“And what is that?” She asked, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. He smiled slightly before his expression passed onto a sneer. He moved away from her, evading her touch. Her hand fell back to her side limply.

“Mother says –”

“I don’t care what mother says. You are the king, not her.”

“Death is the only mercy for traitors.”

“Robb Stark is my husband.” She smiled down at her hands as though she were amused. “Eddard Stark is his father. And you… you are my brother. That makes us all family, and we should never harm our family.”

“He is a traitor.” Joffrey snapped, and she recoiled when he stalked past her. He was angry now. Her gaze raised a fraction before she winced. Her little game was falling to pieces. She looked up at her brother for a moment, and warily watched him glare out of the window. She had to be clever. Clever like her mother. Clever like her uncle Tyrion…

“Yes, but he is still our family.” She smiled down at the floor once more; hoping Joffrey would see her smile rather than her shaking hands. “Besides… death is perhaps, _too_ kind. It is a mercy, yes, but what if it’s _too_ _much_ of a mercy? Robb’s bastard brother – I forget his name - went to the Wall and I heard that it’s worse than the Seven Hells.”

Joffrey turned and looked at her, his expression was a little less bored than it had been a moment ago. “A man is lucky if he doesn’t freeze to death on his first day. He’s even luckier if he lasts a _week_. Either that or they turn traitor and flee so that they are granted the mercy of death.”

_Please don’t hurt him,_ she wanted to cry, _please don’t take Robb’s father from him._ But she couldn’t. That wasn’t how the game worked.

“I heard someone say that rapers prefer castration to the Wall… It must be truly terrible, don’t you think? Spending your life hiding from goblins and ghouls, trying not to go mad or freeze to death in the process.”

Joffrey turned away from the window, and leaned against the wall.

“Have you ever seen this stupid wall everyone talks about?”

“Oh no, I was never permitted to visit. Benjen Stark said that the men were so unaccustomed to a woman that the sight of one would surely send them all mad. Can you imagine that? Never knowing a woman’s touch…”

Joffrey smiled at that.

“Or, perhaps… he could be exiled. I’ve heard such terrible tales of Free Cities.” She made a noise of disgust. “I suppose we ought to go down to the feast now, I wouldn’t want to make you late to your own name day celebration.”

Joffrey was quiet for a moment, regarding her from by the window. She could only hope that she had planted a seed in his brain, making him consider her words, making him think they were his own. It was the only way to win with Joffrey.

“You’re right,” he eventually said, “let’s go.”

Joffrey stepped away from the wall and crossed the room in four long strides. She felt his hand at the small of her back and smiled as he led her from his room. It was just as she felt herself hope, that perhaps all had been forgotten and forgiven between them, that Joffrey’s gentle touch slipped away and the hand which had been guiding her suddenly shoved her.

She stumbled forward with barely enough time to lift her hands to brace her against the wall before Joffrey’s hands caught her long hair and dragged her head back. She was too shocked to cry out. All she could do was quietly whimper when her brother’s face loomed close, his breath hot on her cheek.

“I know what you’re doing, Myrcella.” He said, with one hand running down her to grip her neck while the other twisted painfully in her hair. He laid his forehead against her temple, his body pressed flush against hers. “It’s not going to work.”

“I’m not doing anything!” She gasped, crying out when his grip on her neck tightened. He’d hurt her in the past, held her too hard, pulled her hair, pushed her down, but never had he laid his hands upon her like this. She squeezed her eyes closed, willing herself not to cry.

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you, if I spared the father of your traitor husband?” His grip tightened, his fingers threatening to tear her long hair from its roots. “Would you like it if he killed me, sweet sister?”

“No!” She wailed. “I didn’t mean what I said on the balcony. I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry! All I’m trying to do is find a way for you to forgive me!”

She felt him shift away from her slightly. He hadn’t expected that.

The hand which had been locked around her neck moved, his fingers unwinding painfully slowly, and it moved down, travelling down her body until… She froze. Her eyes, which had been squeezed closed, unwillingly opened. “Please,” she cried, “tell me you forgive me.”

His hand slipped away, and the back of his finger ran down her cheek. He pressed his forehead against her temple again for a moment, and she thought she heard him sigh.

“Sweet sister,” he breathed, “sweet, sweet Myrcella.”

The hand which had been twisted so tightly in her hair finally loosened and Joffrey stepped away from her. The weight of him no longer forced her against the wall, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Shock had frozen her still. She could only blink the tears from her eyes as she watched her brother smooth the creases from his tunic.

When he caught her eye, he smiled. 

“Come now,” he said, “we don’t want to be late.”

He towed her away from the wall with all the gentleness a loving brother should possess, and snaked his arm through hers. Her hands were still shaking when they reached the Queen’s ballroom, when her brother released her at last and sat at the head of the table with his beautiful golden crown glinting in the wavering light of the candles. She stood alone for some time, trembling by the arched doorway, until her mother waved her hand and sent a knight to guide her to her seat.

Her mother glanced at her sharply when she was forced into the seat next to her, and her lips pursed indignantly over her wine glass.

“Whatever is the matter with you?”  She asked, and Myrcella shook her head hurriedly, forcing her shaking hands to be still upon her lap.

“Nothing,” she answered in a whisper, “nothing at all…”

 

 

\--

 

 

There were marks upon her wrist; she noticed them only as she rode out of the gates. Bruises littered her skin, as they always had when she was younger, and finger shaped marks were left on her body as a reminder, a _promise_.

They were a promise from Joffrey that no matter how hard she tried to see past it, he would always be weak to the dark within him, and they were a promise to herself that she would never let it happen again. She would take her brother and she would go far from this place and never let herself look back.

“This bloody heat,” she heard uttered from beside her, and she rolled her eyes.

By her side, was her uncle’s sellsword. She’d bought him for the day.

Her uncle seemed to trust him, and had assured her that he wouldn’t go running off to her mother, so she made herself be content with that. But all the same, as they rode into the depths of King’s Landing, to supposedly visit the poor, she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder ever now and again to make sure he hadn’t betrayed her trust and that her mother’s men weren’t chasing after them.

When they neared the blacksmith’s, she held up her hand.

“Wait with the horses here, please. I shan’t be long.” She called over her shoulder to the sellsword, and dismounted her horse before he could say anything in response. She tugged down her sleeve, covering the marks on her wrist, when she walked away from the horses, suddenly more conscious of them than before.

She looked back as she walked up the steps into the shop, and saw that the sellsword had done as she had asked, and was stood with the horses. He hadn’t run off to tell her mother. He hadn’t ratted her out to the king. For now, she was safe. She inhaled deeply before she pushed the double doors open, and stepped into the shop with her sense of purpose set back into place.

She was here for a reason, not just to see her father’s son.

“Ah, Lady Stark.” Mott greeted her, welcoming her into the store in a much friendlier manner than he had before. The man even smiled. “I take it you received my letter.”

“Yes,” she answered as stepped through the door he held open for her, her eyes seeking Gendry out at once, “thank you. I was happy from you so soon.”

Her father’s bastard son was stood at the forge, as he had been the last time she had seen him, but he stopped at the sound of their voices. She smiled faintly, and he nodded his head politely at her before he returned to whatever it was he was doing.

“If you want to talk to the boy, my lady, he should be finished with his work soon.” Mott piped up when he followed her gaze. “Now, here is the item you commissioned. The boy made it just liked you asked.”

She turned when Mott presented the sword to her, and was surprised at how quickly she took to the weapon he held out towards her. It was a fine blade, indeed. She saw her face reflected in the flat side of the sword, and reached out, curious to see the hilt of it.

Just as she had asked, there was an emblem of the direwolf designed into the hilt of the sword, the colours subtle, but pretty. Her fingers traced the outline of the detailed direwolf, appreciatively taking in the soft blue colour which had been used amongst the grey and the black. The small blade reminded her a little of Ice, and in turn, brought with it thoughts of Robb and Winterfell.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, smiling properly for the first time in days.

“It’s perfect.” She exclaimed when she opened her eyes. “It’s exactly how I envisioned it. Thank you, Gendry.” Her father’s eyes met hers then, and something icy pricked her heart, dissipating the warm feelings that thoughts of Robb had sent through her. “This is very fine work. If only our castle smith were as skilled as you.”

Mott nodded at Gendry then, and he lowered his hammer, his work seemingly finished. She had hoped for the opportunity to speak with him, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she would say to him and what she _could_ say. She doubted it would benefit either of them if she told him who his father was and what exactly that meant for him.

“You can speak through here. Go on, boy.” Mott said, gesturing for her to follow Gendry. “Excuse me, my lady; I will wrap your blade now.”

She followed Gendry out of the forge, out into a small garden. It was nice. The heat was the forge was shut away when she closed the door behind them, and she felt the gentle breeze as she lowered herself onto the step. There was a table and chairs, but she ignored them, enjoying the cool of the stone step and the light breeze.

“Master Mott says the King’s Hand was arrested.” Gendry began, glancing at her briefly before grabbed up a chair from the table and sat down on the edge of it. “Says he’s a traitor. Is that true, m’lady?”

She shrugged. “He was arrested for treason, but he’s no traitor.”

“He was nice, is all…” He said, and she murmured quietly in agreement.

“Are you treated well?” She found herself asking, wondering if his answer would be different with his master out of earshot.

But Gendry simply shrugged, “Well enough, m’lady.”

“And you enjoy being a smith?”

“It’s all I know.” He answered her, and she had to look away. How different his life could have been if he weren’t a bastard. He would’ve been a king’s son. A prince, maybe even a king one day. He would’ve known a life so very different from the one he lived… it made her, just for a moment, almost want to tell him the truth, but she stayed silent, knowing the truth would help neither of them.

“The blade is exactly what I wanted, so thank you.” She wasn’t sure what else she could say. She pushed herself up onto her feet and dusted any dirt off of her pretty jade dress. “I suppose I ought to go...”

“M’lady,” Gendry’s voice stopped her as she started towards the door, “do you know what the Hands wanted with me? Why they asked me all those questions and that?”

She looked down at the floor, not wanting to lie. But what choice did she have? The truth would do nothing but hurt the boy. What good was a dead king and a dead father to him - was it not better he lived without knowing?

Yet, when she met his gaze and was forced to look into those eyes – her father’s eyes, her uncle’s eyes – she couldn’t lie. She knew she couldn’t tell him the whole truth, but she wasn’t sure if she could bear outright lying to him.

“Yes,” she sighed, “I know their reasons for wanting to speak with you. Your father… he – he was a very important man. Lord Stark and the others were close to him. They wanted to see how you were… they wanted to know-”

The door creaked open and Tobho Mott’s head stuck through the gap, startling them both.

“Forgive me, my lady, but there is a man outside and he asked me hurry you along.” Mott said, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course Ser Bronn would be eager to move along to the brothel. _Men._

“Thank you very much for your time, and this should cover the rest of the payment.” She placed a heavy purse of coin into the armorer’s hand and plastered a sunny smile onto her face. “Please, if you could, give the man the blade and tell him I will be leaving shortly.”

Mott nodded, and hurried off without a word. Coin always seemed to put people in better spirits, something she’d never understood – or ever had to understand… The thought made her feel guilty, even if she knew she had no reason to.

“I’ll tell you about your father when I next see you,” she told Gendry, “I promise.”

“You’ll be returning, m’lady?”

“Of course. I’ll need another blade for my brother’s name day.” As she spoke, she thought of Tommen and how little use he would get from a blade. Her sweet brother… she smiled faintly at the thought of him. “Farewell, Gendry.”

“Goodbye, m’lady.”

He bent the knee slightly as she turned to go, and lowered those blue eyes of his, freeing her from his gaze. Seeing her father’s eyes again had brought back memories, painful, unwelcome memories. She kept seeing him as she had last seen him, on his death bed, and how she had grown up seeing him, drunk and angry. They were not the memories a person was meant to have of their father, but they were all she had.

She sighed as she left the store, and not even the sight of her new blade could lift her spirits. The ache was settling back in. The sharp, bitter realisation that every hurt she had faced since her return was her own doing. Had she known the truth, as Robb had, and seen through her mother’s lies, she never would have seen her father before he died and she never would have known the extent of the darkness within her brother’s heart and never known how twisted and black it really was.

She never would have known how truly capable he was of being a monster if she had simply thrown the letter in the fire and returned to her dear husband’s arms. _Oh Robb,_ she thought to herself miserably, _I am so sorry._

She rode back to the Keep in silence, forgetting her plans to visit Barra. Myrcella did not think of the girl, that sweet little child she had so briefly held in her arms, again until she had heard that the streets had run red with royal bastard blood…

After that, the girl was all she could think of. She thought of nothing, while her mother danced and her brother laughed, but the bastard brother and sister she had failed to save.

 

-      **Robb**   -

 

Red hair caught the sunlight, shining like polished copper, and at first he thought it was his mother.

But his mother was far from him, that he knew, even as he turned and expected to lay his eyes upon her. His mother was journeying south to meet with Renly on his behalf, and yet, somehow, he was still surprised to see that the person who stood before him was not her. 

It was, perhaps, the last person he had thought to see that morning.

Lord Renly’s letter slipped from his fingertips, catching on the wind as it fell to the ground. Stood before him, wearing an expression which was so different to the last he had seen on her face, was his sister. He felt himself laugh before he cried out her name.

He ran to his sister’s side, stumbling over his own feet in his haste, and dragged her close. He enveloped her tightly in his arms, barely conscious of her sobs until he drew away and looked, at last, upon her face. He took in her red rimmed eyes and damp cheeks, and kissed the top of her head.

“How did you get here? What happened? Where’s Arya?” He expelled in a single breath, all of the questions which filled his thoughts flooding out. Sansa shook her head, and began to cry again. She gripped the front of his shirt, her hands curling into small fists as she dragged him close to her again. Her forehead fell upon his shoulder, and she sobbed against him.

When he looked up, uncertain what he could say or do to comfort her, he saw for the first time that stood several feet behind her was Jory Cassel. Gently, he pried his sister away from him and the backs of his fingers wiped away her tears.

For a long, terrible moment, Sansa struggled to speak as she tried to control the sobs which wracked through her. “Joffrey sent his – his guards to kill us.” She cried, with new tears filling her eyes. “They killed everyone but Jory, and Arya – Arya was separated from us. I don’t know where she is. We couldn’t find her!”

He felt himself grow suddenly cold.

Sansa was safe, but Arya was missing. 

Arya, with her skinny arms and grass stained knees, was out there, somewhere, alone. He couldn’t bear the thought. And the thought of telling his mother, who was so very far from them, was worse still.

“Why would he do that?” Sansa exclaimed tearfully, her eyes asking something of him when she looked up at him. “Why would Joffrey do that?”

Robb frowned, a new emotion taking hold of him as he drew his sister back into his arms. The king had tried to take his sisters from him, he realised. From behind the safety of his castle walls, Joffrey had sent his soldiers out to kill Sansa, who he may have one day been married to, and Arya… His blood, which had grown so cold at Sansa’s words, suddenly seemed to boil with anger.

Their hope had been to reason with the boy king. His intent had been to march on King’s Landing with an army of Northerners, and free his father and his wife. But now… now he knew that there was only one path for them. His mother had journeyed south to question what Renly would do if he battled for the throne and won his crown, and he would see to it that they spoke of something else.

He would have his forces joined with Lord Renly’s, and with this so-called army of flowers and stags, he would have justice for his sisters and his father. He would rip that golden crown from Joffrey’s golden head, and he would take his father and his wife and he would go home, to Winterfell, where they all belonged.

 

-      **Myrcella**   -

 

When she was called to the throne room, she knew at once that something was wrong.

A new face sat amongst the council, and the man’s name she heard in whispers. _Oberyn Martell,_ she heard the lords and ladies whisper amongst themselves, _here to seek justice for his long dead sister._

She pushed through the small crowd which had gathered and approached the Iron Throne. She bowed before her brother, who smiled down at her from where he sat, and when she rose, she offered a polite smile to each member of the small council that stood at his side.

Oberyn Martell was the only one who returned her smile.

“At last,” her brother announced, “my dear sister has arrived. Now, we may begin.”

Sat in a chair to her brother’s left, was the Grand Maester. The man, so ancient that he could not stand like the others, cleared his throat as he unfurled a roll of paper.

As the man opened his mouth to speak, her mother and her uncle entered the hall from behind the Iron Throne. The heavy door slammed behind her mother and the sound echoed throughout the throne room.

Cersei stalked up the steps towards the throne with fury to match the likes of wildfire blazing in her eyes. Her uncle, whose scar seemed less terrible to her than before, shared a similar expression, and shot her what looked like a sympathetic glance as he stepped up to take his place as acting Hand to the King.

“Impotence,” her brother began, earning a chorus of laughter from behind her, “it is such a curious thing. What kind of _man_ is that, who cannot find pleasure in even the most beautiful of creatures?”

There were more titters from behind her.

Her mother, claiming her rightful seat next to Joffrey, waved her hand with a look of distaste on her face, and the guards ushered away the snickering lords and ladies. She was glad of it for but a moment, realising, once they were gone, that it left her all alone.

“Look at my sister, for instance. Who could ever deny such beauty?”

She paled under Joffrey’s searching gaze.

The Grand Maester cleared his throat for a second time, and looked down to the roll of paper he held in his hands. Even Joffrey was silent as he waited for the old man to speak, though smug look on his face didn’t go away.

“It was upon the confession of Princess Myrcella to her brother, his grace, that this small council was convened.” The Grand Maester said, reading what was written off of the roll of paper with obvious discomfort. “His grace’s sister did confide in him that her marriage to the traitor, Robb Stark, is indeed false and that she left the marital bed as much a maid as she was the day she was brought into this world.”

Her eyes flashed to her mother’s. _No!_ She wanted to cry, _no, no, no!_

Joffrey laughed, and her blood ran cold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _dun, dun, dun_
> 
> I tried to leave it on a bit of a cliff hanger there - and I promise I'll get the next update up soon, half of it is already written, so it should be up in maybe a week or so?
> 
> I hope you all had a lovely Hanukkah, Christmas, New Year (and anything else that you celebrate) and let's hope that this year is a good one :) I think I've finally got rid of the virus, or whatever it was, that I've had for a couple of weeks, but if any parts of this don't make sense or there's any errors let me know. I made the mistake of writing when I was sick, and when i re-read some of what I wrote, well, it was entertaining, to say the least.


	14. Chapter 14

The Maester went on, reading off of the roll of paper as though he somehow did not see the look of horror on her face. He continued to read as though he didn’t know what his words had to power to do her, to her life...

Her gaze, very much against her will, shifted and she saw what she had feared, that Joffrey’s eyes were locked on her with a look of sick, smug satisfaction. Joffrey smiled, knowing exactly what it was he had just done.

She wanted scream every curse she knew at her brother, she wanted to shout for her mother and for her uncle to help her, she wanted to cry until she had no tears left… but all she could do was listen as she stood, so very alone, before her brother and his small council.

“…And on these grounds, out of love and respect for his most _beloved_ sister, his grace does seek an annulment on grounds of impotence, resulting in an unconsummated marriage and one that is therefore void and invalid.”

And when Joffrey laughed, it drained the despair from her. Anger took its place.

Her eyes met her brother’s, and she was struck by the ferocity of the rage which coursed through her. Any love she had left for him was slowly crumbling away, leaving nothing but revulsion in its place. She could almost feel it; as every happy memory she had of her brother was being poisoned, leaving nothing but images of Beth and Tommen and her own broken heart in their place.

She dragged in a deep, ragged breath, and turned around on her heel. She stalked from the throne room furiously, her footsteps echoing loudly over the voice of the Maester, who tried in vain to call her back.

“I’m not finished, my lady -” He called to her retreating back, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. _She_ was finished.

It was time for her to go home. Robb was waiting.

_Impotence._ In any other situation, she might have laughed.

She wanted nothing more than to run; to take Tommen by the hand and escape the Keep before anyone had any time to react. And she wanted to scream, and break things, and hack at her brother with a sword until he could say horrible things no more. She wanted Robb to charge on the back of a white horse in like a knight would do in the songs and save her.

She wanted to hurt them all as much as they had hurt her.

She wanted to – she wanted to -

_Breathe, Myrcella._

_Breathe._

She forced herself to stop, to quit her mad pacing and slow down for just a moment. She fell back against the wall of whatever corridor she had been storming through and made herself breathe. No good decision was ever made in a hurry, someone had once told her, and that was all which stopped her from running to Tommen’s room and dragging him away from this horrible place forever.

_Think,_ she told herself.

_Think._

_\--_

It arrived at dawn, and the raven which carried it died a day later.

The guard who passed it to him was silent; he did not say who sent it.

He didn’t need to.

Robb slammed the door behind him, forgetting in his haste to thank the guard, and sank down heavily onto the edge of the bed they had once shared. He gripped her letter tightly in his hands.

Myrcella’s letter was a page torn from a book of songs and hymns, a gift from Sansa on her name day. On one side were the words to a song he was not sure he knew, and on the other, were her words.

_I am yours_ , she wrote, _and you are mine_.

Those few words were all she gave him. He turned the page over; looking for whatever clues she might have left him in the verses of the song. The song was untouched, and only the song’s name had been underlined by her hand.

He stared at the song’s name, trying to remember a time he had heard it. But Seasons of My Love rang no bells in his head. He wasn’t even sure he knew the tune. But one verse in particular caught his eye.

It made the corner of his lip tug up into an all too brief smile.

_I loved a maid as fair as summer,_

_With sunlight in her hair_

His mother had warned him that ravens could be easily lost, with letters so often falling into the wrong hands. It had stopped him from writing to her – from telling her all the things he needed to say – and it made him certain that Myrcella had thought the same. She wouldn’t risk her words being understood by anyone other than him.

He looked away from the letter, staring intently at the fire beside him as he tried to understand what it all meant. The words she wrote were his. He had said them once, hadn’t he? It felt like such a long time ago, but he remembered – of course he remembered. How could he forget?

What had happened in the woods had frightened her. She had been so afraid, afraid that he would see her as the enemy, afraid that his bannermen would not accept her, afraid that she would be seen for her family and not who she was… 

_You are not the enemy,_ he had told her, _you are my wife._

But he would not know what it was Myrcella was trying to tell him until days later, when news reached them from the capital. And he let himself believe, as he stood alone in the Godswood, in the spot where they had been married, that their love had been a fragile thing and that what they had was gone, that it had turned to ash –

But then he remembered, and he understood.

_I am yours_ , she had written, _and you are mine_.

Robb grinned. Perhaps all was not lost after all.

“She still loves me,” he found himself saying to the trees and to his Gods. “She still loves me.”

 

 

\--

When Tommen closed the door behind him, she felt like she could finally breathe.

It was finally over. She didn’t have to pretend anymore.

The days which had followed the annulment of her marriage had been both the longest and the worst of her life. But she hadn’t let it show, not for a single second. She had smiled her way through every supper with her mother and brother and she had played the part of the liberated and joyful princess whenever she felt someone’s gaze rest upon her.

She had played her part well, and now the charade was finally over.

“Are we going to see the dragon skulls now?” Tommen asked as she crossed the room to be by his side. Myrcella almost smiled. She mussed her brother’s hair and dragged him into her arms, needing him close to give her strength.

She knew her chance of escape would be easier if she left him behind, but she couldn’t leave him, not here, in a world which would turn him bitter and cruel. She would never let that happen. Never.

“Yes,” she whispered, “we’re going to see the dragon skulls.”

A lord’s son had told her of the skulls once. He had been trying to scare her. He had told her that dragons lived beneath the Keep, waiting for the day that little children wandered too far from their mother’s skirts. His stories had made her frightened of the cellars and the dark, so frightened that one day Joffrey had grown angry with her and dragged her down there to see for herself.

_There aren’t any dragons, you stupid girl. Father killed them all. Look for yourself, there’s nothing down here._

She had lived in the Keep all her life; she had never seen a dragon - Joffrey had been right about that - but she had seen other things.

Her uncle had shown her a way out of the castle, a glimpse of a tunnel which led from the Hand’s tower to the brothel where once had lived her dead, bastard sister. It was from there that Jeyne and her father had escaped. She held stubbornly onto the hope that the secret passage would serve her and Tommen just as well.

She pressed a kiss to the top of Tommen’s head and drew him out of her arms. “We need to go now, Tommen. Don’t let go of my hand, alright? Do you hear me, don’t let go of my hand for a single second.”

As they slipped out of her chambers and into the darkness, she gripped Tommen’s hand tightly. The night was moonless, leaving the castle dark. If they were quiet and kept to the shadows, then they might be able to slip out of the castle unseen.

As they hurried, their fingers tightly entwined, she went over her plan.

Her plan was nothing more than a fool’s hope – but it was all she had.

At any given time, there were dozens of ships in the harbour. Ships that went anywhere for the right amount of gold – and she would give every gold and silver coin she had to her name to get onto one. Her mother would know where she was going, and she would try to stop her… but if they went somewhere no one expected, then perhaps they had a chance.

They could sail to Braavos and hide somewhere in the Free Cities. She found herself smiling at the thought. They would be like to two Targaryens, hiding where no one knew their name. She could write to Robb and tell him to come for her, to save her as the knights always did in songs…

As she gripped her brother’s hand tightly and prayed for courage, she thought of Robb’s father. She would be abandoning him; she couldn’t let herself forget that. If she left, fleeing with Tommen, she would surely be signing his death sentence. There would be no one left to speak for him, not once she was gone…

But – as she looked down at her brother, who she knew would follow her blindly into anything – she knew this was her only choice.

She could only hope that they would forgive her; that Robb’s father would know that she had done everything she could, and that his children wouldn’t judge her too harshly.

 

\--

 

Her uncle was awake, pouring over his books in the dimly lit room, with a single, flickering candle struggling to lift the dark. He looked up from his book when the door creaked open, blinking as he tried to see who lurked in the shadows.

“Who’s there?” He barked over his book, his eyes narrowing as he tried desperately to adjust them to the dark. “Who is it?”

Tommen’s hand slipped from hers, “Just me and Myrcella, uncle.”

“Did anyone see you come in?” Her uncle asked, and though he did not say it aloud, she knew what he was asking - _will anyone know who to blame when all this is over?_

“No,” she answered quickly, “no one saw us.”

Her uncle threw back the covers and slipped out of bed, padding quietly across the dark room towards them. He smiled at Tommen briefly before his gaze turned upon her and his expression darkened.

“This is foolish, Myrcella.” He said, “Are you really going to risk -”

“Yes,” she answered at once, without a moment of hesitation. She had never been more certain of anything. “I would risk everything. Now, are you going to get out of my way willingly or am I going to have to force you?”

Her uncle blinked in surprise, but complied. He stepped out of her way wordlessly, and his expression grew worried as he looked from her to Tommen. She tightened her grip on Tommen’s hand and pulled him after her as she approached the secret door.

It was only when she reached the fireplace where it was hidden that she stopped, turning around to face her uncle, who had followed them.

Her steely expression softened when she looked upon his face, realising that his concern wasn’t just for her brother. “You could always come with us, you know. You don’t have to stay here.”

Her uncle smiled faintly. “Yes, I do. You know I do.”

She pressed her lips together, with guilt tearing at her. It was wrong to leave him, but they both knew that she needed him in King’s landing, to be the one person in the viper’s nest that she could trust implicitly.

“Let me get you some gold.”

“I already have-” She began to say, but her uncle held up his hand and stopped her. He moved quickly to the small table at his bedside, drawing from it a large purse of coins that clinked together when he walked back to them. He placed it wordlessly into her hands.

“Tommen, say goodbye to uncle.”

Tommen looked up at her, a pucker forming between his brows. He didn’t understand, yet, all the same, he stepped forward and silently wrapped his arms around their uncle. Tears pricked in her eyes. She looked away, willing herself not to cry. She needed to stay strong. She had to be strong, for the both of them.

“Goodbye, uncle.” She murmured quietly as Tommen returned to her side, his eyes wide and worried. “I love you,” she said, addressing the both of them before she bent to press her lips to the side of his cheek which wasn’t scarred. “And thank you, for everything.”

“Good luck.” Her uncle’s quiet reply was heard as she dragged the trap door open and helped her brother down the long ladder. She wanted to look back, to see his face one last time, but through the dark and her tears, she couldn’t see anything. She closed the trap door behind her, shutting them in the darkness as they descended the ladder to freedom.

 

\--

 

The sun was just beginning to rise when they finally emerged from the long, dark tunnel, the dawn colouring the sky in a way which was so beautiful that it gave her reason to hope. A day so lovely could not have been made to see her miserable. The Gods couldn’t be so cruel.

The walk to the docks was far from where they were, at the base of Rhaenys' Hill, but it paled in comparison to their escape from the Keep. Despite being out in the open, exposed to curious eyes, she felt safe. Wading through knee-high sewer water had left their clothes sodden and ruined, making them look almost unrecognisable. Tommen’s tunic hung off of him like rags and his curls, damp from sweat, were plastered to his head and made dark with dirt.

No one would look upon them and see a prince and princess. No one.

She glanced behind them, seeing the Red Keep sat high above them from on Aegon’s Hill. She wondered how long it would take before anyone realised they were gone. She tried to imagine the extent of her mother’s fury, but she couldn’t, the thought came laced too much anger and remorse for her to focus on it for long.

She didn’t want to hurt her – she couldn’t be blamed for Joffrey’s actions – but it was the only way. If she stayed in King’s Landing and didn’t even _try_ , then she would never forgive herself. As much as she loved her mother, she wouldn’t let the world she lived in ruin Tommen.

“Are we almost there, Myrcella?” Her brother asked and she looked ahead. If she looked carefully, she could just make out the outline of masts and the glint of the sea. They weren’t far, but they still had a long way to go…

“We’re almost there.” She promised.

Tommen had given up asking about dragon skulls some time ago. She liked to think that he understood and that he would be able to forgive her for stealing him away from the only life he had ever known. She could only hope…

By the time they reached the docks, they were both exhausted. The walk had been long; the smell of Flea Bottom utterly unbearable once the sun had risen and the temperature had begun to build. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get the smell of piss, and she didn’t like to think what else out, of her nose any time soon.

The docks were bustling and busy, just as she remembered them, and there were even more ships docked as there had been when she had arrived in King’s Landing. With a sharp pang, she thought of White Harbor and the goodbyes she and Robb had shared there.

_Come back soon._

Ahead, there was a man dressed in rags, sat with his feet dangling over the side of one of the long jetties, sorting through tangled fishing nets. She approached him first and asked about the ships travelling to the Free Cities, poorly pretending to know what she was talking about.

The man pointed wordlessly to a group of sailors who were talking loudly to a strange looking man that was dressed in every colour imaginable. She smiled, murmuring her thanks as she and Tommen walked down the long wharf towards the sailors and the flamboyantly dressed individual. As she drew close, she overheard stray bits of their conversation. They were arguing about gold, or the lack thereof.

“Pardon me,” she called, sensing an opening, “I was told to speak with one of you about ships bound for the Free Cities -”

“Aye,” one of the sailors answered her, “that would be right. And you’re in luck, miss; she leaves for Ragman’s ‘Arbour at noon.”

She wasn’t sure where Ragman’s Harbour was, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. As long as it was far away, and where no one would expect, it would suit her just fine.

“If you’ve got the coin, that is.” Another piped up.

“I’m sure I have more than enough.” She snapped with unintentional primness, earning the attention of the man they had been arguing with. He held out his hand to her, his many gold rings glinting in the morning light.

“And you are?” He drawled, the heavy perfume which clung to his brightly coloured robes making her nose itch as he drew nearer and nearer to her and Tommen. She nudged Tommen behind her and shook the man’s hand.

She searched quickly for a name, “Rosamund Lannister, of Lannisport.”

“A Lannister.” One of the sailors spat, his eyes unkind. There was some whispering, and with dark looks thrown her way, the group of sailors talked quietly amongst themselves. She shrank back, gripping tightly onto Tommen’s hand. “I thought as much. All look the bloody same.”

“Yes, but _Lannister gold_.” The colourfully dressed man chimed in, shutting up the rest. “Give your gold to me, Lady Lannister of Lannisport, I am the ship’s captain – of sorts. You may call me Captain Olthos”

Captain Olthos, as she later learned, was a Braavosi, a trader who had found his fortune through various means he avoided speaking of – though, there was very little the man _didn’t_ talk about, something she learnt in the hour she and Tommen were made to sit with him while waiting for the ship to be ready to set off.

“…my mother always told me that I would find my fortune in the West. You Westerosi… such strange creatures… all your lords, how do you keep track…” He talked ceaselessly, pausing only briefly and occasionally to measure her reaction. Every time he did, she nodded or murmured quietly in response, and that was enough, and he set off again, talking about everything under the sun.

“There is something I must know.” He said, abruptly reaching out to grasp her hand. “Will you tell me, Lady Lannister of Lannisport?”

She nodded, “I suppose.”

“Is it true what they sing of the lord of the Rock? Can one man truly be as fearsome as he is in a song?” His light, conversational manner made her more nervous than it should have. She felt her palms begin to sweat.

“What song?” She asked, feigning ignorance.

He laughed. “You know it. All know it.”

When he began to hum it, the song which brought her chills, she had to squeeze Tommen’s hand to reassure her that he was still there and still needed her to be strong for him.

“We don’t much like that one.” She said. “We prefer happier songs.”

“Ah yes, such is not -”

There was a commotion in the markets, a sudden eruption of shouting which was followed by a scream. She looked over her shoulder, startled, as the City Watch descended upon the few stalls set up around the bay before anyone was even aware of what was happening, chasing down a young woman carrying a small, dark haired child.

She watched, too stunned to even react, as one of the knights drove a sword through the woman’s back, sending her and the child toppling to the floor. Tommen flew to his feet before she could stop him. He ran before she was even aware that his hand had slipped from hers.

But her brother didn’t run _away,_ her brother ran towards the swords. He ran with his hands raised, hopelessly crying out for the Gold Cloaks to stop. He ran towards the swords as they were raised to run the woman and her child through. His desperate, demanding cries caused some of the knights to pause for just a moment.

If they recognised him –

Myrcella flew to her feet. She raced after Tommen, but she failed to reach him in time. Her brother watched as the little boy, crawling out from beneath his mother, covered in her blood, was cut down. She wasn’t able to shield him from the sight of the boy’s throat being cut nor was she able to stop him from crying out –

“I order you to stop!” Tommen yelled as loudly as he could, his usual meekness so startlingly absent. “Stop what you are doing _now_ or I will tell my mother! I will tell my mother, Queen Cersei!”

The Gold Cloaks stopped and slowly, they turned.

“No, Tommen, no!” She could only manage to say before something hard collided with the back of her head. She saw stars and it all went dark.

 

\--

 

It was such a sweet dream, made sweeter by its impossibility.

She was going home. She was so close, so very close, to being in his arms again. She could almost imagine it, the broadness of his smile and the feel of his arms, so warm and strong, as they wrapped around her. She could almost hear Bran’s laughter, almost see Rickon’s smile…

Her eyes fluttered open, and she sighed.

It was too lovely to be real.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and fought off her exhaustion. She wouldn’t let herself fall asleep again, not if it meant dreaming such a sweet, impossible dream. She couldn’t think about them. It hurt too much.

She had failed. She had tried her best, but she had failed.

She sat up with another heavy sigh, tired of being in her bed, tired of doing little besides sit and feel sorry for herself. She fixed her dark gaze on the door, willing it to be opened, willing it to be unlocked.

Feeling what little patience she had left slipping, she dragged herself out of bed and planted herself in front of her large mirror. She sat at her dusty vanity table and forced herself to remember that she was a princess, not a prisoner. She would not be treated this way. She would not be locked up and forgotten.

She was Cersei Lannister’s daughter. She was made of sterner stuff.

She dragged a jewelled comb through her messy hair until it was soft and her curls bounced prettily again. She then fashioned it the best she could with several small, loose plaits that joined at the back of her head.

She pinched her cheeks, bringing the colour back to her face. She forced herself to smile at her reflection. _There,_ she thought. That was much better; she looked a little less mentally deranged.

She glanced down at her dress – the same dress she’d been wearing for days – and quickly rose to her feet to change it. She chose a soft, rose-coloured gown and fashioned a gold, Lannister lion necklace around her neck.

She looked back at her reflection, and nodded to herself in satisfaction. She looked almost like a princess again. She looked nothing like the girl who had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into this room days ago. She tried to forget about that girl and that day, knowing it would do her no good.

She had tried her very best, and she had failed. And that was that.

Or so she told herself.

She heard shouting from the floor below as she lowered herself back onto the chair at her vanity table, making her freeze. Her head whipped around to face the door. The shouting grew louder and louder until –

The doors burst open, and her mother stormed in.

“Mother!” She cried, flying to her feet and into her arms. She buried her face in the crook of her neck and felt the sting of tears as guilt slashed through her. And for an all too brief moment, her worries melted away. She clutched tightly at her mother, never wanting to let go.

But her mother drew away first.

She touched her cheek and cried, “Oh, Myrcella. I’m so sorry.”

“What? I - I thought you’d be angry at _me._ I thought - _”_

“It’s Joffrey.” Her mother exclaimed. “And my monster of a brother!”

She felt a cold prickle of fear. “Mother, what’s wrong? What have they done?”

“Joffrey is… angry. He took it as an insult that you tried to run away.” Her mother’s hands fell away from her face, and she looked away. “But that isn’t the worst of it.”

Myrcella had never seen her look so pale. “They have Jaime.” She whispered.

Her mother paced away from her, pacing the width of the room with her hands trembling. She had never seen her mother look so unraveled. All her composure was gone as she furiously scrubbed at her cheeks and wailed, “The Northerners have captured your uncle Jaime.”

She was crying, she realised. Her mother was crying.

Myrcella hurried to her, and took hold of her trembling hands. “Robb would never let any harm come to him.” She promised her. “He loves me, mother. He wouldn’t do that to me.”

She clasped her mother’s hands tightly within her own. “If you let me see him, if I could go to him – I could convince him to stop… He would stop this war, for me.”

But her mother shook her head. “Joffrey would never allow it.”

“I know a way out of the castle. I could sneak away -”

“Because that worked so well the last time you tried?” Her mother scoffed. “No, Myrcella. Who is to say the Northerners wouldn’t just use you as another piece of leverage against us -regardless of how your Robb Stark feels about you.”

“He wouldn’t do that.” She protested, with an unintentional edge to her voice. “ _They_ wouldn’t do that. They don’t want a war. All they want is Ned Stark. If you just let me speak to them, I know I can find a way to stop this.”

“It’s not possible. It’s too dangerous. Besides… you aren’t going anywhere,” her mother sighed, “not until decide who to sell you to.”

“ _Sell_ me? Mother, what are you-” _Oh Gods no._

For a moment, her mother looked almost pained. Cersei opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t seem to find any words. Myrcella blanched. “Mother, don’t let them! Please, don’t let them! Don’t make me marry someone else!”

Her mother turned away, dragging her hands out of Myrcella’s grasp. She resumed her pacing. “Why are they doing this? Is it because I tried to run away? Because I won’t, I promise! I’ll stay here. I won’t try to go anywhere. Just, please – don’t let them do this to me!”

Now she was the one who was shaking.

“He says he’s doing it to protect you. The frightful creature.” Her mother muttered, her gaze turning hateful as she thought of her younger brother. “I’ve tried talking to him. The monster. But father wants it too, so I don’t know what to do...”

“Wants _what?”_

“The Northerners have allied themselves with Renly Baratheon.” Another voice answered, both she and her mother turned to see her uncle walking calmly through the doors, followed by that smug sellsword of his. Her mother’s expression darkened. “If they try to take the city, there is nothing we can do to stop them. We need allies.”

Her mother was seething. “So you sell my _children?”_

Her uncle rolled his eyes and Cersei stalked forwards, jabbing him in the chest with her finger.“You won’t get away with this. You think the piece of paper father gave you will keep you safe? Ned Stark had a piece of paper. Look where he is.”

Myrcella fixed her wide, startled eyes on her uncle.

“Uncle,” she cried. “Tell me this isn’t true.”

“Don’t you dare lie to her.” She heard her mother hiss, but her uncle didn’t seem to notice. He walked towards her slowly, cautiously, and reached out to touch her hand. She flinched.

“I’m not trying to hurt you. I have been helping you all this time, have I not?” He insisted. He wrapped his fingers around her hand and clasped it tightly. She jerked her hand away, but he refused to let go. “This is what must be done. My father has made me see that.”

“ _Father?”_ Her mother spluttered bitterly. “ _Don’t._ Don’t try to pass the blame -”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.” Her uncle snapped, momentarily silencing her mother.

His attention returned to Myrcella and his grip on her hand tightened. “Renly Baratheon has the largest army in all the Seven Kingdoms. He has the Tyrells. He has what remains of Stannis’ forces. And now he has the Northerners by his side. We are powerless to stop him on our own.”

He squeezed her hand. “We need allies. Dorne and the Iron Islands -”

“The Iron Islands would never ally themselves with Lannisters!” She exclaimed, almost laughing in disbelief. What was the intended match, Theon's _older_ sister and her little brother? She had nothing heard anything so absurd. “Do you forget that Theon is a ward of the Starks? That he is loyal to Robb?”

“Theon Greyjoy is a captive, a means to stop his father from rebelling.” Her uncle said seriously, looking at her as though he expected her to agree. “While I’m sure the boy is very fond of his captors, the same cannot be said for the rest of his family. Now, if Tommen is sworn to marry Asha Greyjoy when he comes of age, then that will give us the might of the Iron Fleet.”

“That must be some sort of joke.” She laughed in disbelief. “He’s just a boy.”

“And if anything were to happen to Joffrey, he’d be king.”

She jerked her hand away, drawing it to her person. She felt the weight of his words, hanging heavily in the air between them. She dragged in a deep breath, trying in vain to prepare herself for what was about to come.

“And me?” She asked. “How many ships am I worth?”

“We both know what you fear.” Her uncle suddenly said, his gaze locking with hers. “Do you really think you’ll be safe here? No one will be able to protect you from him, not now. It’s hard to put a leash on a dog once you’ve put a crown on its head, just ask your mother.”

She looked away. She didn’t want to think about Joffrey. If she did, she would have to admit that her uncle was right. She _was_ afraid of what Joffrey might do. His words still haunted her.

Her uncle reached again for her hand. “I had hoped that you would get away, Myrcella. I want you to be happy, I do, but you weren’t able to get away and now it’s too late. We are at war, and Robb Stark is no longer your husband.”

Her mother, who had been unusually quiet, moved forward and slapped his hand away from hers. “Tell her the rest.” She seethed. “ _Tell her!_ ”

“Tommen will secure the Iron Islands with his betrothal and you, Myrcella... You will marry Prince Quentyn Martell of Dorne.” He said at last. He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

Her hand flew uncontrollably and she struck him hard across the face.

She thought she saw her mother smile. The palm of hand stung from the impact and her uncle looked up at her, touching the red mark on his scarred face with the tips of his fingers.

“You are a sweet, innocent girl, Myrcella.” Her uncle said. _Am I?_ She almost asked. “Do not let yourself become your mother’s daughter.”

She shifted her gaze to her mother. Her fierce, strong, beautiful mother. To be considered her mother’s daughter was a compliment. She felt a small, spiteful smile take possession of her lips as she reached out and took her mother’s hand.

Her mother smiled too, for just a brief fleeting moment. Then she walked away, towing Myrcella after her as she pushed past the sellsword who blocked their path. They left the room Myrcella had been locked in for days, but she knew, as she looked over her shoulder and saw her uncle watching at her go unhappily, that she was merely walking from one cage to another.

 

\--

 

Myrcella stared down at the bead of blood that ran down her finger curiously.

There was a reason why roses had always been her favourite flower. They were beautiful, but with the power to inflict pain. She laughed quietly. How she wished she could say the same for herself sometimes.

She carefully picked the thorns off of her pretty red rose and let them fall to the floor. She held the flower up to her nose, inhaling deeply. The flowers always smelt the sweetest this time of year, before the leaves began to slowly wither and fall.

She had been so happy here once, in this little world where nothing existed save for the feel of the sun on her face and the softness of the grass between her toes.

But that time was over.

She threw the rose away from her. The Tyrells were the ones who loved flowers, not Lannisters or Baratheons.

Not a Stark, not a Baratheon, not a Lannister. Myrcella wasn’t quite sure who she was anymore. In time, her uncle’s scheme would see her become a Martell of Dorne, but she wouldn’t allow such a terrible thought to enter her head.

She didn’t let herself think of Robb’s father either, whose days of sitting in a cell were numbered. Her talk with her brother on his nameday had done its job; Joffrey was to exile Ned Stark to the Free Cities for the remainder of his days.

Her mother had wanted him to be sent to the Wall, but Joffrey had laughed at the idea. _He doesn’t deserve to even see that bastard of his again,_ her brother had said. His eyes had met hers across the table, daring her to say something. Myrcella had returned to her supper in silence, knowing her words would do more harm than good.

And then there was Robb… thinking of him hurt most of all, but she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried, fight off thoughts of what he would think of her once he knew…

_Come back soon,_ Robb had asked of her. But there was no chance for her to run anymore. Even as she walked barefoot through the gardens, she was watched closely. Eyes followed her every move, waiting for something. It was almost as though they wanted her to run just so that they could have the pleasure of dragging her back.

 

\--

 

One day Robb would learn to dread the cry of ravens. On that day, he would know that nothing good came from the words they carried. But on that day, it made him happy. He grinned. He took the letter from the leg of the raven himself.

It was word from Winterfell. Word from Myrcella.

He had asked Maester Luwin to send him whatever form of message Myrcella or any his siblings sent, regardless of where he was and whatever battle he was fighting. Whatever it was, even if it was Sansa simply telling him what kind of pattern she had stitched with Jeyne Poole that day, he needed to read it, just to know that she was alright.

But Robb felt his smile slip as he unrolled the letter. Whatever hope he had left inside of him died the moment he read the first of her words.

_Forgive me,_ she wrote.

_I love you and I’m sorry._

_I don’t know if I will be able to write again. It’s too dangerous now. I’m being watched, always. They’re sending me away – they’re marrying me, Robb. I won’t say to whom, it doesn’t matter now. You must be careful; they’re trying to marry Tommen too. They want the Iron Fleet. Do not let Theon out of your sight. _

_Don’t fight for me this time. Don’t come find me. Don’t risk another war._

_I’ll find a way to come back to you, I promise._

He crumpled the letter in his hand and tossed it into the mud.

Anger ripped through him, and he walked away from Myrcella’s letter - let it sink into the blood and dirt and piss for all he cared - not knowing where he was going until he got there. He jerked his chin, and the door to the Kingslayer’s cell swung open.

“Ah, _Lord_ Stark.” The Kingslayer looked up at him with a glint of something in his eye. “I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safekeeping, but you drag me along from camp to camp.”

The Kingslayer dared to grin. “Have you grown fond of me, Stark?

“If I left you with one of my bannermen, your father would know within a fortnight and my bannerman would receive a raven with a message, ‘Release my son and you’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse and your house will be destroyed, root and stem.’”

“You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you into battle?” The Kingslayer asked him in what sounded like disbelief. For a moment, his green eyes looked so like Myrcella’s that Robb had to look away.

“Oh, I trust them with my life,” he said, “just not with yours.”

“Smart boy.” The Kingslayer japed. “What’s wrong? Don’t like being called ‘boy’?”

The Kingslayer pulled a face. “Insulted?”

But Robb wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“You insult yourself, Kingslayer.” Robb responded quietly. He watched as Grey Wind stalked the cage with his yellow eyes fixed upon his prey. “You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy. Perhaps you’ll be killed by a boy…”

His hand ghosted over the top of Grey Wind’s head when he stopped beside him.

“Before his death, Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros.” Robb said, running his hand down Grey Wind’s back. “King Joffrey Baratheon is neither a true king nor a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.”

The Kingslayer smiled contemptuously. “Oh? And what does that make Myrcella?”

It was a thought he had considered, but one that meant little to him. It wasn’t her blood that he loved. And to the Seven Hells with what she wanted, he decided, for her he’d fight a hundred wars if he had to.

Robb’s eyes narrowed. He wanted to see that smile gone from the Kingslayer’s face. He was tired of seeing his prisoner smile. “You pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen.”

“You have proof? Or do you want to trade gossip like a couple of fishwives?”

_Proof?_ He almost laughed. Proof was in his brother’s broken legs and his mother’s scarred hands. Proof was in the blade which belonged to his brother, the Imp. Proof was in the king’s blood, the prince’s blood… Myrcella’s blood.

“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.” He declared, finished with their conversation. There was more he needed to add to his terms, Myrcella’s letter be damned. She might hate him for it, but he didn’t care. She was his wife, no matter what some boy-king said. He would not let her be taken from him by her family.

“You think my father’s going to negotiate with you? You don’t know him very well.”

“No,” Robb muttered, “but he’s starting to know me.”

“Three victories don’t make you a conqueror.”

It was Robb’s turn to smile.

“It’s better than three defeats.” He said before he let Grey Wind go. He listened to the direwolf’s growls as he turned and stalked away, grinning as he memorised the look of horror that stole the smile from the Kingslayer’s face.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long (and I'm sorry I'm always saying that, one day I will get a quick update up I swear). I actually had this written by the time I finished the last chapter but I just wasn't happy with it and rewriting it took, well, a little longer than I thought. Pretty much all of Robb and Jaime's comes from the scene in 2x01, so credit goes to the show (and Richard Madden's delightful scrunchie face) for that. Hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> Note - if there's any mistakes, let me know. I was having a bit of trouble, for some reason not all of what I pasted actually appeared when I previewed this. It looks alright, but I'm tired and so I may have missed something. So if there's anything wrong, or the grammar and whatever makes no sense, let me know.


	15. Chapter 15

 

It was not often her brother asked for things nicely. Even from a very young age, he had very much taken to making demands rather than requests, and so when he did, she knew better than to refuse.  

She quietly thanked the guard who walked her – _escorted_ her – from her room to Joffrey’s, and smiled as if she was grateful when he opened the door to the king’s chambers for her. She stepped through the door reluctantly.

“You asked to see me?”

Joffrey was waiting for her.

 _Lovely_.

Sat on his chaise lounge, he waved his hand and beckoned her forward impatiently. As she took a hesitant step towards him, she heard the door behind her creak slowly shut. So she was to be trapped in here with him. She was almost tempted to see if the door had been locked as well, she wouldn’t have put it past him. Myrcella had to inhale deeply before she could move any closer to her brother.

“I’m leaving on a hunting trip,” he told her. “I may not be back in time to see you go.”

She could not keep herself from warily looking down at the large crossbow he was handling as she sat down next to him. He noticed – Joffrey always did, and grinned. He held it up for her to inspect, but she would do no such thing.

“Do you like it? I just had it made…” She thought she heard something akin to pride in his voice; it reminded her of their father. She was almost tempted, just for a brief fleeting moment, to remind Joffrey of what had had happened to their father the last time he went hunting. “It’s probably one of the finest weapons in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Is this why you asked to see me? To show me your new toy?” She regretted the words the very instant they slipped from her lips, but her brother, to her surprise, grinned and shook his head. His eyes were on the weapon as he spoke, his hands busy.

“No,” he said quietly. “That isn’t why I wanted to see you.”

He was taking his time; he played contently with the weapon in his hands and seemed barely aware of her presence beside him. She watched him warily, trying to figure out what it was he wanted from her.

“We’re hunting for deer.” Joffrey said. “ _Stags_.”

There was a cruel glint in her brother’s eye when he looked at her, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a taunting grin. “Or wolves, if it pleases you. It makes no difference. But, when I think about it, there’s no fun in hunting them anymore, is there?”

She couldn’t hold his gaze for long; she looked down at her hands and willed them to stop shaking.

She told herself not to be afraid - after all, what more could he possibly do to her? All she had left was her life and that was the one thing she knew Joffrey would never be able to take from her. She liked to think that if he hurt her – _truly_ hurt her – he would be hurting himself. It was what he had said once, when both he and the world were kinder.

“No,” she told him quietly. “There’s no point in hunting wolves anymore.”

But that wasn’t what she truly wanted to say; there was no point in hunting wolves because the wolves were already hunting _them_. And the wolves were going to win. No one would dare admit it, but the truth was that House Lannister was losing the war which had only just begun.

“And if I could shoot down the sun… would you like that?” Joffrey asked her and she frowned. When she didn’t reply, he continued irritably. “The Martell dogs tried to give me a queen and mother said no, so they got you instead.”

“They wanted you to marry Arianne Martell?” She hadn’t known that.

“They insult us. They didn’t want _you_. They wanted the throne but they took what they could get when mother refused.” Joffrey spat and he turned away from her, looking angry. “ _My_ sister is more than _second best.”_

He wasn’t angry because she was being married off, she realised. _She_ was the insult. _His_ sister was _second best_ and that somehow reflected poorly upon him. He wasn’t angry because he loved her and wanted her to stay, but because _his sister_ was a consolation prize.

“Would you stop it, if you could?” She had thought she had known Joffrey’s feelings on her betrothal before now, she had thought he hated it as much as she did, but suddenly she wasn’t so sure; she didn’t know what his answer would be and that worried her. And Joffrey, who had made it a habit of surprising her lately, sneered in disgust.

“Better a Dornish dog than a traitor.”

She sighed; of course that was his answer.

“When do you leave for your hunt?” She asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Soon.” He muttered in a vexed tone. “This evening, I assume.”

“I see…”

Silence fell between them, as awkward as it was tense. Joffrey cut his eyes at her to see if she was looking and she glanced away, fixing her gaze on the boar head which hung on the wall opposite his bed. There was an arrow lodged in its eye.

“Joff…” She began, turning away from what had to be the most ghastly wall decoration since the dragon heads in the Throne Room. “I was wondering… when is Ned Stark to be exiled? No one will tell me.”

If there was anyone who was going to tell her some semblance of the truth, it was Joffrey. Sure, she knew very well that he would make it hurt and he would see her suffer, but at least he would tell her the truth.

Joffrey scowled and returned his attention to his crossbow.

“I don’t know.” He muttered irritably as he fixed an arrow onto the crossbow. “So much fuss over one man… The Northerners want him back – _alive_ , or they’ll kill Uncle Jaime. You should have seen Mother’s face.”

Joffrey’s dark scowl deepened and he continued to mutter, talking mostly to himself. “She actually looked like she might accept. As if she was stupid enough to think she could. I am the king, it is _my_ decision.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The Northerners sent our cousin with their so-called ‘terms’. A farce, I tell you. They offer peace in exchange for you _and_ Ned Stark. They want the bones of those who died here, too – as if we left anything of their bodies to bury.”

Myrcella paled, his words dredged up unwelcome memories of Heward and _that day._ Myrcella wondered if Joffrey even remembered little Beth Cassel and all the things he had made his guards do to her.

“They say Robb Stark still acts as if you’re his wife.” Joffrey sneered unkindly, changing the subject entirely. “It’s his own fault - if he had been a real man, he would have put a whelp in you and none of this would have ever happened.”

Joffrey’s eyes lingered too long as they raked over her, she shifted uncomfortably and wished that he would look away.

“There’s going to be a feast,” she told him, steering the conversation in another direction. “Mother said it will be a farewell to me and a welcome to our new guests. Let’s hope your hunt won’t keep you from it.”

“Oh, yes.” Joffrey muttered distractedly, fiddling with his crossbow as he spoke. “I’d forgotten about that. I’ll come back for it. For you.”

Myrcella frowned slightly as she realised that a small part of her was almost glad she was being sent away, because at least in Dorne she would be about as far away from him as she could get. She might never have to see him again.

“You should smile more,” Joffrey muttered. “You look like mother when you frown like that.”

“Sorry.”

“And wear something pretty to the feast. I don’t like you in this.” Joffrey’s scowl turned into a sneer as he gestured towards the simple, pale blue dress she wore. She shifted uncomfortably and wondered what he would do if she wore something he liked. She swore to herself that she would _never_ find out, even if it meant living the rest of her life in a potato sack.

“Tell me something, sister. Did he never truly fuck you, not even once?”

She didn’t answer; she fixed her gaze on her hands and waited for him to find some other cruel thing to say. Joffrey always would, he was remarkably skilled in the sense that he always knew how to hit right where it hurt with every word that came out of his mouth. It had helped her in the past to think of him as he had been when they were children, but when she thought about it, even then he had always been aware of what buttons to press and what nerves to hit. 

“You can tell me.” He said in a lower voice than before, leaning towards her as he spoke. She didn’t look at him, not even when she felt his breath on her cheek. He ran his hand through her unbound hair and twisted a single lock around his finger. “You swore never to deceive me again, so tell me, sister. Tell me what Robb Stark did to you.”

“Nothing.” She whispered, her eyes stung with the threat of tears as she made herself look at him. “He did nothing. He didn’t want me. He said he’d never want me in that way, that I was too young and he thought of me like… like a sister.”

When tears rolled down her cheeks, Joffrey wiped them away. He did it so gently, with such care that he almost fooled her. But she would not let herself make the same mistakes again; she blinked away her tears and moved as far away from Joffrey as she could. He looked at her, a challenge in his eyes, but said nothing.

She bowed her head, letting her long hair fall around her face so that it shielded him from view. She scrubbed her cheeks with the back of her hands automatically. She did not want the feeling of his touch to linger. 

“Dear sister…” She thought she heard him murmur, but she ignored him and refused to lift her head. “My poor, sweet, untouched sister.”

 _Untouched._ She shuddered. Joffrey said it like he hoped to change that. It made her look at him; it made her glare at him. And that challenge that still there in his eyes. Had it been there all along?

“My guards have been watching you for me,” Joffrey told her with a small, almost soft smile. His hand brushed against her arm and his fingers played idly with the sleeve of her dress. “They watch you when I can’t.”

“Why?” She asked, but her voice was barely more than a whisper.

A vindictive look spread across his features.

“They tell me so many things… but it seems I was right to be merciful. They say my sweet sister has been behaving herself, that she no longer visits traitors in their cells, and that she no longer creeps about in the night…”

She shivered, wondering how long Joffrey had had his men watch her. 

“But your letters, Myrcella, those even I cannot forgive. Maybe if you begged…”

When she looked back at him, she realised that he was enjoying this. He found some sick sort of pleasure in her torment. Inexplicably, she wondered if he had read her last letter to Robb. _Forgive me,_ she had said. _I love you. I’m sorry._

When Joffrey reached out to grasp her hand, his fingers locking tightly around her wrist, she felt the same anger building up inside of her as before, when he had kissed her during the battle of Blackwater. She remembered hitting him with the flat of his sword and now wished that she had hit him harder, furious the knowledge that Joffrey had known – _all this time –_ that she had written to Robb and was going to use it, as Joffrey always did, to play and torture her with.

“Letters?” She repeated quietly, feigning innocence. “What letters? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, brother. I have nothing to say to Robb Stark, not now that I belong to someone else.”

 _Belong._ The word almost made her laugh. Only a man would be stupid enough to believe a woman could truly ever be conquered. She smiled a little to herself, as she remembered from whom she had learnt that lesson.

“You think your Dornish dog will keep you safe?” Joffrey spat venomously and his grip on her hand tightening painfully. When he dug his nails into her palm, she had to press her lips together to contain the whimper which tried to escape her. “You think you belong to anyone but me? I am the king! You are mine. Everyone is mine -”

Myrcella stood, unable to bear his words any longer. She knew she had neither the will nor the patience to endure Joffrey’s moods. “Where do you think you are going?” Joffrey yelled after her. “I wasn’t finished!”

She whirled around and saw that he had followed her, his crossbow still in his hands. And for the first time in months, she wasn’t afraid. She was _furious,_ but not for a moment did she feel afraid. There was nothing more Joffrey could do to her.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Please forgive me, _your grace_.” She sung in an unforgiving tone. She sounded so like her mother that she was reminded inexplicably of her uncle’s words. He had warned her not to become her mother’s daughter, but in that moment she welcomed it. She coveted her mother’s fury _._ “What were you going to say?”

Joffrey stopped, looking momentarily lost for words.

“I try – so very hard – to love you, Joffrey. I truly do, in spite of all you have done.” She found herself saying, almost shouting as she finally reached the end of her tether. “So why must you _insist_ on making it so _difficult_?”

“You cannot talk to me in this way! I am the king!” Was all Joffrey managed to shout back at her, his evident surprise taking away all his usual venom. Ever since they had put that damn, Gods forsaken crown upon his head, he had grown very fond of that expression, as if any argument could be silenced by a reminder that a monster sat on the throne.

“You’re not the only king.” She muttered under her breath.

“What did you say?”

When she didn’t answer, Joffrey stalked towards her. “ _What did you say?”_

He dropped his crossbow in favour of taking hold of her arms. It clattered noisily to the ground yet neither one of them flinched. He gripped her hard enough to bruise, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Whether he was the king or not, he could never do to her what he had done to Beth. He could hurt her and leave little scars in places where people couldn’t see like he used to, but things were different now – she wouldn’t keep quiet anymore, and she was certain he knew that.

“I said you’re not the only king.”

Seeing her face reflected back at her in Joffrey’s eyes, they could have almost been twins. They both wore the same furious expression upon their face and housed the same fire within their eyes. But the difference lay in that Myrcella knew how to control the fire within her; whereas Joffrey was weak and let his consume him.

“I could cut out your tongue for saying that!” Joffrey threatened and he tightened his grip on her, dragging her closer to him so that they were within inches of each other. “I could have you thrown in a dungeon and left to rot!”

“When Robb and Uncle Renly storm the city with an army that almost _triples_ ours, what do you think they’re going to do to you? I am your _only_ chance for mercy!” She yelled, her fury finally freeing her of her fear of him. She tugged her arms free and shoved at his chest; he staggered a step away from her and gaped, wide-eyed, at her.  “Robb _loves_ me and he knows _everything._ He’ll kill you – he’ll rip your heart out and feed it to his direwolf – and I won’t miss you – not for a single second –“

With a strangled cry, Joffrey struck her hard across the face.

She stumbled and clutched her cheek; it throbbed where he had hit her and stung but she had faced worse. She had survived the death of her child, she had faced Wildlings, she almost wanted to ask him – _is that the best you can do?_ She lowered her hand and looked back at Joffrey, who stared at her with more panic in his eyes than anger.  

She could be brave, brave like Robb.

She lifted her chin and met his gaze unflinchingly.

“You will never lay a hand on me again,” she said. _“Never.”_

The doors burst open then and several of Joffrey’s knights hurried through, their hands were on their swords as they looked around the room as if looking for a threat. Ser Arys Oakheart was the only one who moved to her side instead of Joffrey’s.

“We heard shouting, your grace.” Ser Meryn announced, fixing his gaze her once he found no threat anywhere else. And Ser Arys, in an act of kindness which surprised her, put his arm around her and gently steered her away from Joffrey.

“Are you alright, princess?” He asked in a soft, quiet voice and she nodded, more out of polite habit than anything else. He smiled very faintly and then called out to the other knights, “I shall take Princess Myrcella to see Maester Pycelle.”

Joffrey, who finally seemed to find his voice again, snorted.

“And why would you do that? My sister _fell,_ she’s not dying.”

“Yes, your grace, but that mark on her face will bruise if it is not seen to at once.” Ser Arys explained, using that carefully controlled tone most people with half a brain used around her brother.

When Joffrey’s attention returned to her, his glare seeking out the red mark he had made on her cheek, Ser Arys’ arm tightened around her shoulder and she leaned a little into his side. Joffrey’s glare darkened and he looked away.

“Fine.” He snapped, waving his hand dismissively. “Do as you will. It means little to me.”

She paused for a moment before she let Ser Arys lead her out of the room, she wondered if she ought to say something more, if there was something she had left unsaid. But, when she looked at Joffrey, she knew there was nothing more to be said. She walked out of the room and didn’t look back again.

“Are you alright, princess?” Ser Arys asked her again once the door to Joffrey’s chambers was closed. He was watching her in concern, nervously though, as if he feared she was about to cry and wasn’t sure if he would know what to do. She knew she ought to tell him not to worry, but she couldn’t seem to find the words, so she just nodded and continued silently down the corridor.  

“You are very brave, to stand up to him like that.” Ser Arys said quite suddenly and her footing faltering slightly as she turned to look at him in bewilderment. His expression was sincere and a small, almost admiring smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You heard what I said?” She was surprised; she would have thought she’d have been in trouble for threatening the king – and for momentarily enjoying the image of Robb tearing Joffrey’s heart from his chest and giving it to Grey Wind for his supper.

“It was difficult not to, princess.” Ser Arys’ small smile turned into grimace as he spoke. “He should not have raised a hand to you. It is not right, even if he is the king. Forgive me, we should have interrupted sooner.”

Her hand rose automatically and she touched the tips of her fingers to where it hurt, even the lightest pressure made her wince. Ser Arys had been right when he said it would bruise, no amount of ice would help that.

“Thank you for your concern, Ser Arys… but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to be alone.” She waited, not wishing to appear rude to the one person in King’s landing who still seemed capable of kindness, and left only when Ser Arys bowed his head.

She didn’t let herself cry, not until there was no one around her to see.

 

 

-     **Robb** -

 

He was riding into battle, but his thoughts were a world away.

It was not for the first time that Robb found himself wondering at what point it had all gotten so confused. As he watched Grey Wind bound away from him, his direwolf being the first to enter the fray, he thought, perhaps, that the exact moment lay somewhere between the King’s visit to Winterfell and Myrcella’s departure from it. It was somewhere between there that he had lost sight of things.

The world had ceased to spin in a way he understood - he had sold his uncle Edmure for a bridge, he didn’t know if Arya alive and was as close to saving his father as he had been the day he learnt he had been captured. The only word of Myrcella came from their Lannister prisoner, who returned to reject his terms and tell him that his wife was to be married to another, to a Prince of Dorne no less. Myrcella in Dorne, the thought made as much sense to him as his father’s exile to the Free Cities.

He was allied with Lord Renly and together they possessed any army greater than any other in the Seven Kingdoms, and yet the man refused to march on King’s landing. He preferred to wait, he said. What he was waiting for, Robb wasn’t sure.

It seemed wiser to him to attack King’s Landing _before_ the Lannisters allied themselves with the Dornish, and yet Lord Renly did nothing. Worse than nothing, he rallied those loyal to him and he held tourneys, he played a war while a real one went on around him.

He wore a crown, called himself the king, but did nothing to earn it. Robb did not doubt that Renly would make a finer king than Joffrey, but all the same, what use was a king if he wasn’t prepared to fight for what was right?

 

 

-     **Myrcella**   -

   

 

On the eve of her departure, Myrcella was – amongst other things – strangely relieved.

She was told that Joffrey was delayed by poor weather conditions and had to shelter in a castle on the fringe of the Kingswood. What they didn’t tell her, and what she easily deduced from the way her mother was fretting, was that it was not the weather which had frightened her brother, but the army of Northerners which were marching south.

But it was not to King’s Landing that they were marching, but to the Westernlands; they were going to steal the Rock from her grandfather when he wasn’t looking. It was a clever move, and it was one she might have been proud of if she weren’t so worried that the ones she loved might not make it out alive. Her worst fear was that something could happen to Robb when she was in Dorne. He could die and she might never know. That was what frightened her the most.

With a small sigh, she shook herself from her thoughts. It would do her no good to worry, not about things she had no power to change.

She closed the book she had been blankly staring at for the better part of an hour and looked up, appreciating how pretty the afternoon sun made the gardens. Briefly, she wondered how different Dorne would be, whether it would be as alien to her as Winterfell had once been.

But she had loved Winterfell. She would not love Dorne. She had loved the silence of the Godswood and the summer snow, she had loved the castle and the blue roses which grew in the Glass Garden, but most of all she had loved the freedom of the North. She had felt free, and she had felt loved. There was nothing in the world she could love quite like the North and the people she had left behind.

She didn’t notice the tears rolling down her cheeks until a shadow was cast upon her; it nearly startled her out of her seat to suddenly see someone stood before her.

“Forgive me, princess.” Prince Oberyn Martell drawled, bowing his head ever so slightly. “I did not mean to startle you.”

She quickly wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. “I lost my way…” The Dornish prince continued, grinning. “Or so I thought.”

She made herself smile.

“Will you walk with me, princess?”

She rose to her feet reluctantly and tucked her book under her arm.

“I’d love to, Prince Oberyn.”

The Dornishman smiled and fell into step beside her.

“What were you reading?” He asked in a polite manner and unconsciously, she tightened her grip on the book. There were so many lies she could tell him, but somehow, the only words she could manage were the truth.

“A gift from my good-father, it’s a collection of stories about the history of the North. I was reading about Bran the Builder…” She realised, too late, that she ought to have called him her former good-father, and did not miss the surprised look which crossed the prince’s face.

“My nephew enjoys reading.” Prince Oberyn said, surprising her.

She wasn’t sure what to say, so she simply smiled and silence fell upon them as they walked through the gardens. There were guards following behind them, she noticed after some time had passed. Ser Arys was among them.

When they reached the edge of the gardens, to where it looked out onto the sea and the slowly setting sun, the prince turned to her. He smiled again and leaned against the stone wall.

“It was not my nephew, Quentyn, you were meant to marry.” He told her conversationally. “Did you know? My brother suggested my other nephew, Prince Trystane, instead, but the great Tywin Lannister refused.”

She did not miss the way he spat her grandfather’s name. “He forgets, I think, that Dorne is not King’s Landing. We do things… a little differently. It is not my nephew who will succeed my brother, but my niece, Arianne.”

The Dornish Prince smirked as he looked out over the sea. “‘She will marry the eldest or no one at all’ I believe were his words.”

“Even when begging, my grandfather finds a way to make it a demand.” She muttered quietly to herself and was surprised by Prince Oberyn’s laughter; she had not meant to speak aloud.

“Indeed.” He grinned.

She looked out over the water; she had always loved the way the light reflected off of the sea. It had been the one thing, aside from her family, that she had missed when in Winterfell. She had missed the sound of the sea; she had spent her entire life falling asleep to the sound of the waves hitting the shore.

“I am sorry that I will miss your wedding, princess, there is no doubt that you will make the most beautiful bride.” He said and, ducking her head so that he could not see, she grimaced uncontrollably in response. She steeled herself against the ache in her heart; she refused to let herself dwell on her wedding day – neither her upcoming one nor her last.

“So it’s true, you are to remain in King’s Landing, Prince Oberyn?”

“Yes, princess.” He grinned. “There is a place for me on the King’s council.”

He said it like it was some sort of joke. Perhaps it was.

She looked back at the sea and at the slowly setting sun. For the first time, she didn’t see the beauty in this sunset, she couldn’t, not when she knew that the next time she saw the sun setting, she would be sailing to Dorne.

“What is Dorne like?” She found herself asking. “Won’t you miss it if you stay here?”

“I will miss my home very much.” Prince Oberyn answered. “But there are certain things which must be done that are only possible in this place.” She wondered briefly if his sister, Elia, had been alive the last time he had visited the capital but the thought was too sad for her to dwell on for long. “I think you will enjoy Dorne.” Prince Oberyn told her with a smile. “You will no doubt spend much of your time at the Water Gardens. It was my sister’s favourite place as a child… it is a place even the poorest can enjoy. She liked that.”

“You must have loved her a great deal, to still think about her, after all this time. I am very sorry.” She tried to imagine how she would feel if it was her, if someone she loved suffered a similar fate, but she couldn’t, it was too awful to imagine.

“She was my sister.” He answered simply, and it was enough.

She knew how strong the bonds of family could be; she knew how it could be that two hearts could sometimes seem as though they beat as one, and how any pain inflicted on one was felt just as harshly by the other. She felt it even Joffrey, that he was still a part of her, that he would always be trapped within her heart.

“Do you hear that?” Beside her, the Dornish prince shifted away from the wall and looked around him, hearing something that she did not. Her forehead creased in confusion as she turned, straining her ears to hear what she hadn’t before.

She heard…

_Bells._

But what reason could there be for the ringing of bells? The bells rang for the birth of a prince or a princess, for a wedding, for death and for a city under siege. She looked to Oberyn Martell for an answer, but he looked just as confused as she was.

She called out for Ser Arys, knowing he wouldn’t be far.

The knight appeared quickly – a little too quickly, leading her to ponder whether or not he had been hiding behind a nearby bush the entire time – and bowed before her and the Dornish prince.

“Ser Arys, do you know why the bells are ringing?”

“No, princess. I can’t say I do.” Ser Arys replied, looking rather nervously over his shoulder. “Perhaps we ought to return to the Keep, princess. The bells never mean much good…”

Unless Joffrey had found a bride within the few days he had been gone, the ringing of the bells could mean only two things.

Either her brother was dead or the city was under attack.

It was unsettling how the thought filled her with so much joy and so little dread. It should not have made her happy to think that Robb was coming to save her, but it did. And though the thought of Joffrey dead was upsetting, she unconsciously lifted her hand to her cheek and found the bruise which was still there.

She wordlessly agreed with Ser Arys and was already walking away when she remembered Prince Oberyn, The Dornish prince did not seem bothered by the bells, he was looking over the water again, watching as the sun disappeared behind the sea.

“Prince Oberyn, will you be joining us?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, princess, but no. I would prefer to remain where I am for now. It is such a pleasant evening; I would not like to waste it by being indoors.”

Ser Arys held out his arm then and she took it with no real hesitation. The frantic, insistent ringing of the bells made her forget her courtesies and she left Prince Oberyn in the gardens, only realising later that she had not bid him farewell.

 

 

-     **Robb**   -

 

 

It was with the words of a song plaguing his thoughts that Robb urged his horse onwards, the outline of The Crag barely visible in the darkness. Even the leaves seemed to whisper the words; his victory haunted him like a defeat.

_And the stars in the night were the eyes of his wolf, and the wind itself was their song._

His sword was bloody by the time they were through, though not as bloody as before. The castle was more a ruin than anything else, the battle was over the moment the ram broke through the gate and his men charged through.

He didn’t see the archer, though, not until it was too late.

As he stumbled back, pain slashing through his shoulder, Greywind bounded ahead and tore the throat from the man, who was the last to make a stand against them. The others were already lifting their hands in surrender when Robb found himself falling to his knees. The arrow head was sticking out the other side of his shoulder, blood was soaking his armour.

He heard those words again. _The stars in the night were the eyes of his wolf._

Fingers bloody, he tried to pull the arrow through, to drag it from his shoulder, but the pain was too much. In the darkness, he saw almost nothing, but then… through the blur of the dark and the rain, he thought he saw her. He squinted against the rain, searching for her.

And there she was, looking the same as the last time he had seen her, smiling, with her hand raised to wave. She was stood before him, amidst it all, as though she had been there all along, as if she had been waiting for him to finally see her… 

And when she smiled, it didn’t hurt anymore. He could finally breathe again.

He tried to reach for her, but he couldn’t find a way to move. And as rough hands shook him, trying to wake him, he found himself wondering if he was dead. He wondered if the arrow hadn’t pierced his shoulder, but his heart.

But if he was dead, then that meant she was too…

And if she was dead, then all this fighting had been for nothing. He had nothing to fight for, if not for her. His sister was lost… his father was gone… Myrcella was all he had left.

As his eyes began to open again – he had not known they were closed - she started to slip away. Black edged the corners of his vision, and the dark took her from him. The pain returned as she disappeared. She took all his strength with her…

“Oh Gods, quickly – hurry – we must get him inside -” Someone was speaking to him, but he was deaf to the fear in their voice, and then suddenly someone was pressing something to his lips, forcing him to drink, but he couldn’t open his eyes.

He was laid back. He was wrapped in something warm. His shoulder knocked against something, but he didn’t feel the pain of it. Numbness spread through it, strange and dizzying. He thought he heard himself laugh, hearing someone yell the words of the song.

_And the stars in the night were the eyes of his wolf, and the wind itself was their song._

 

 

-     **Myrcella**   -

 

 

The bells grew louder and louder the closer they got to the Keep.

Once inside, she was certain that she’d still hear them ringing in her ears long after they’d stopped. It was strange, the bells had rung before the Battle of Blackwater, yet they had never seemed so loud, they had been ominous, not thunderous.

Ser Arys kept close to her as they pushed through a crowd of people, making no apologies as he pushed past anyone who found themselves in their way. She was very much aware of the nervous way he was looking around them and how he had one hand pressed to the small of her back and the other sat on the pommel of his sword, ready to draw it at any moment.

She should have told him that they had nothing to fear from these people. She knew it because every person she and Ser Arys passed was afraid. They all knew what the ringing of the bells could mean. And they all looked to her for something, _anything,_ to set their minds at ease, but there was nothing she could say, not until she knew for herself. She couldn’t bring herself to lie to them.

“What do you think it means?” She asked Ser Arys for the umpteenth time as they passed through the empty Throne Room. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the Iron Throne, remembering what had once been said about it. _A king should never rest easy_. It was a thought which nagged at her, even after the monstrosity was out of sight.

The knight gave her the same response as before. “I don’t know, princess.”

She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes picking the outline of the throne out of the darkness. She recalled the day when Joffrey had dragged her to it and made her watch as he sat down on what, then, had been their father’s throne. They had been children, too young to understand, and Joffrey had cried when he had leaned back and accidentally cut himself.

She had always hated that throne.

“Come along, princess.” Ser Arys said. “We should not linger here.” When she hesitated, his hand returned to the small of her back and he gently pushed her forwards and guided her away.

Darkness had fallen on them very quickly, it was dark when they approached Maegor's Holdfast and found the drawbridge lifted. She stared down at the iron spike which lined the bottom of the moat; she had never noticed them before.

“Who goes there?” Someone yelled from the other side of the dry moat. She heard the sound of Ser Arys’ sword being pulled from its sheath and she shook her head when she met his eye. As the knight obeyed her command and returned his sword to its sheath, she peered around the raised bridge to see who it was and sighed in relief.

“Ser Barristan, it’s Princess Myrcella and Ser Arys Oakheart. Would you please allow for us to cross?” She exclaimed over the ringing of the bells and within an instant, the drawbridge dropped. She hurried across and embraced the knight. “Please,” she beseeched him, “what has happened? I don't understand what is going on -?”

The kindly knight took her by the shoulders and very gently drew her away from him. There was a look in his eye that she recognised. It was the same expression he had worn the night her father had died.

She felt herself grow cold.

“What is it? What has happened?” She asked him again, more urgently this time.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but -” Ser Barristan began to say, but he was cut off by a sudden, terrible wailing coming from inside the holdfast. The cry echoed over the bells. She felt Ser Barristan’s hands slip from her shoulders as he too turned and looked for the cause of such an awful, heart wrenching sound.

She felt a hand at her back and did not need to look to know that it was Ser Arys.

“Is the city under attack?” She found her voice once the wailing was gone and the older knight turned to her with a solemn expression, one which reminded her painfully of her father’s final moments and the promise she had failed to keep.

_Promise me. Promise me…_

“No, princess.” Ser Barristan answered. “It is much worse than that.”

 

 

-     **Robb**   -

 

 

The Maesters worked well. Too well, in fact. He was given milk of the poppy so often that he knew neither dream from reality and slept soundly while his army moved on, closing in on Casterly Rock without him.

The milk of the poppy he had been given granted him strange dreams, some sweet, some… less so. Most often he dreamed of home.

He had been gone too long from Winterfell, he felt the call of home so strongly that he felt the harsh sting of tears whenever he found himself thinking of it. He longed for his mother, his brothers and his sisters. He wanted to see his father again, to do what he had set out to do and return him home. And he yearned for Myrcella; he had not known how much he needed her.

Amidst his fever dreams he thought of Rickon’s breathless laughter and the way Bran always looked at his feet before he lied. He thought of Jon, imagined him on the Wall, all clad in black, happy and smiling with their uncle, Benjen. He even saw Sansa and Arya, laughing together, getting along for once with their direwolves sat at their feet. In his dreams, he forgot about what had happened to his uncle, he forgot about Lady too, and how little Bran smiled anymore.

It was easier to dream.

 

 

-     **Myrcella**   -

 

The scene was so familiar; it made her wonder if it was really happening at all.

They were all gathered outside the king’s chamber, just like before. They were all watching, waiting with bated breath. It was almost too much; she relied on Ser Arys and Ser Barristan to keep her steady.

The only difference was that her uncle was not there, and in her confusion she almost asked where he was. Oberyn Martell was stood in her uncle’s place; his expression was a mask of calm, so different to all of the others.

“Ah, Princess Myrcella, you’re here at last.” The Spider breathed, his presence making her feel ill at ease. The perfumed air which followed him reminded her of another day, when she had thought he had helped her save her friends, only to have him tell her brother about it later. She looked at him and she saw Beth. She glanced away from him to stop her from saying something unkind.

She fixed her eyes on the closed door, wondering what nasty surprise was hidden behind it this time. Her hand found its way to her cheek, to where it still hurt, as she remembered the last time she had stood outside of the king’s chambers.

She didn’t want to see Joffrey, she was still angry with him.

“I don’t understand.” She said, her voice was a small, hollow thing. “Why are you all here? Why are the bells ringing if the city is not under siege?” She glanced at Ser Barristan, wondering if he had lied to her. “Or is it?”

“The city is not under siege, not that I know of, at least.” She thought she heard Littlefinger jest, dragging the smallest of smiles out of the Spider. Her brows furrowed in irritation. Her father had hated these men – flatters and fools, he had called them – and in that moment, Myrcella felt the same.

“Then what is it?” She asked him, her tone was sharper than it ought to have been.

Prince Oberyn, who had decided not to enjoy the beauty of the gardens after all, answered for the others. He was the only one who did not shrink away under her gaze.

“It is the king.” He informed her. “He has returned from his hunt.”

_A boar… we were hunting, and…_

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she thought that she understood. But she didn’t want to understand. She didn’t want to face it, she was afraid she wasn’t strong enough, after all.

Be brave, she told herself, be brave like Robb.

She dragged in a deep, shaky breath before she moved, pushing past Littlefinger and Varys to see whatever it was behind that closed door for herself. She thought she heard someone call her name, but she didn’t let herself pause, she knew she had to do it now, before her courage failed her.

She entered the king’s chambers and closed the door behind her.

She could be brave, brave like Robb…

She first saw her uncle; he was stood by the window with his back to her. She wanted to run to him but her feet remained rooted to the ground. The Grand Maester was stood by the hearth, his expression drawn. And lastly, there was her mother. She was sat on her brother’s bed, holding something in her arms. She was crying, but in a way which she had never seen before. Violent sobs racked her body and from her lips, she released that same strangled sound Myrcella had heard earlier, it tore at her heart and made her run to her.

“Mother,” she cried. “What is it? What’s -”

She stopped, her gaze falling upon what her mother onto so dearly.

It was hidden from her, wrapped up tightly in a gold shroud. She crept forward, her hand outstretched. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the shroud, the tips of her fingers carefully skimming across the silken fabric until she found the edge. She drew it back slowly and saw at last what the shroud had hidden.

Her gasp cut through the ringing of the bells and her mother’s wails, it made her uncle turn around as a sudden, unnatural hush fell upon the room. She could no longer hear the bells or her mother. She could hear only her heart, the thudding sounded loudly in her ears.

“Look away, princess.” The Grand Maester droned. “It is not a sight for young ladies -”

She had never seen anyone look so pale. His lips were blue. His eyelids were closed and the spidery veins stood out against his chalk white skin. She touched his sunken cheek, and felt that he was cold, so very cold. She felt her lower lip tremble as she sunk to her knees. He was so small in death. He didn’t look like a monster, he didn’t look like someone who hurt her, he was just a boy, dead long before his time.

And though she hated him, she had loved him.

As she wept, the news broke. She could hear their voices over the ringing of the bells, calling out that the king was dead.

_The king is dead, the king is dead, the king is dead._

_Long live the king._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry for the long wait! I couldn't decide on how this chapter was going to go and ending up writing and rewriting it about a gazillion times. Anywayyy, I hope you enjoyed it :)


	16. Chapter 16

**  
**

 

The hardest part was the waiting.

He could grit his teeth through the pain and milk of the poppy was always at hand to help him sleep, but there was nothing he could do to kill the time, to make him less aware of how many minutes were ticking away while he lay in bed, useless.

The girl - the quiet one - was his only company.

The majority of his men were gone, riding to take the Golden Tooth under the command of Smalljon Umber. With Myrcella’s letter in mind, he had asked Theon to stay behind. It was only the thought of Myrcella and her letter that made him mistrust him, though it pained him to do so. His friend had been more than happy to remain behind, though he suspected Eleyna Westerling to be the cause more than anything else.

He wanted his mother. The thought made him feel very young, but he didn’t care. He looked for her whenever he woke, expecting to see her at his bedside. If ever he had fallen or taken ill, his mother had never left his side. She had been the one to mop his brow and to tuck him in, her voice had been the only one to send him to sleep and he was sure he needed her now, more than ever.

The small wound that arrow had made had seemed nothing until it had festered. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since they had taken the castle, but it seemed an age. The girl was back, he noticed when he looked around the room for the first time since waking. He had taken to staring out of the small window, it was a small comfort.

“What time is it?” He asked her, his voice hoarse.

The girl looked up in surprise and tucked a loose strand of her brown hair behind her ear; her fingers were stained with dark, dry blood. Her smile was shy, but pretty. She never said much, but he appreciated her company.

“I believe it’s just after noon, my lord.” The girl answered quietly, lowering her book to her lap. “Forgive me, my lord, I did not know you were awake.” He shook his head; he wanted to tell he did not need her forgiveness, not after she had showed him such kindness, but he couldn’t find the words. “Do you think you’re ready for something to eat, my lord? I can fetch something for you, if you like.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, so he nodded.

“Thank you.” He managed to say, his voice more a croak than anything else.

By the time he finally managed to prop himself up against the headboard, the girl was already back with a tray of food. Noticing his pallor, she set the tray and quickly moved to his side. Her long hair tickled his shoulder as she leaned over him to check the warmth of his forehead.

“Your fever is back again, my lord.” She told him with what he thought was a sigh. “My mother always said to starve a fever, but –” She glanced behind her, at the tray she had fetched for him. “I think it’s best you eat something, my lord.”

He forced himself to smile; the girl was being kind, after all.

 “The soup’s not very good.” She murmured apologetically, ducking her head as her cheeks reddened slightly. She brought the tray forward and settled it on the small table beside the bed. “It’s not all that warm, either. I’m sorry, my lord, it’s –“

“Don’t apologise.” He said, reaching for the bowl with his good arm. “You’ve been very kind.” And even when he lifted the bowl to his lips and found that she was right, that the soup was indeed less than pleasant, he didn’t allow for it to show on his face.

He realised, a little too late, that he had forgotten the manners his mother had tried so hard to instil in him, but the girl - who smiled sympathetically when he missed his mouth and soup spilled down his chin - didn’t seem to mind.

The girl took the bowl from him when he was finished and smiled politely as she sat back down on the stool by the bed. He felt both better and worse for it, his stomach was no longer aching but it was beginning to churn uncomfortably. And when he paled, the girl was on her feet again, holding up a wooden bucket up as he retched. He apologised in between bouts of sickness and the girl’s lips twitched in amusement.

“It’s alright, my lord. I’ve seen worse.”

He didn’t doubt that she had. She had been by his side for days; she had endured the smell of his festering wound, the sight of his blood and never so much as flinched. There was a certain strength to her, this girl whose name he didn’t even know, that he admired.

“Thank you.” He breathed as he collapsed back against his pillow, suddenly exhausted. He blamed all the milk of the poppy they had been giving him, it always left him drowsy. His shoulder was starting to hurt again, worse than before, but he decided against telling her. If she did, he knew that she’d go and fetch him some more milk of poppy, and he didn’t want that.

“There’s no need to thank me, my lord.” The girl quietly said as she moved across the room, unlatched the small window and threw the contents of the bucket out of it. She left the window open a little, letting in some much needed air.

“My lord?” He had closed his eyes without realising it, he was more tired than he realised. He blinked slowly, blinking the grit from his eyes. “Before… when your fever was at its worse…” He dragged the back of his hand across his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. Those days of fever had been a kindness. He had been in pain, but he had been with her… “You kept calling out one name. Myrcella. I merely wondered…”

He winced at the sound of her name. No one talked about her, not in front of him at least. Theon was more careful than to do that, knowing what kind of mood it left him in. Hearing her name, spoken from the girl’s lips, forced him to remember that what he had seen wasn’t real. She hadn’t been with him. She was gone. And what made it worse was that he didn’t even know where she was. She could be hidden amongst the stars with the Gods themselves and he would never know.

“They say she is your wife, that she’s the queen’s daughter.” The girl continued hesitantly, her soft words were a small distraction from the pain. “They… they say she looks like her mother - the queen. They say is beautiful.”

He thought of Myrcella’s mother, Queen Cersei - the cold, sharp, distant woman he had seen in Winterfell, who Theon had japed should be call the Ice Queen instead. Myrcella was nothing like her. There was nothing cold about Myrcella.

“She was.”

The girl’s expression changed, she looked at him sadly. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did she die?”

After some time, he answered. “No. She was taken from me.”

But every time he closed his eyes, it was as if it had never happened. When he closed his eyes, she was there with him. She was always smiling his dreams, smiling that sweet smile which slowly spread across her face and made something sparkle in her lovely green eyes. It always felt so real, sometimes he was sure he could even smell the flowery smell which clung to her hair. He missed that smell.

“But I will get her back.” He said and the girl who had sat so faithfully by his side smiled.

“I’m sure you will, my lord.” She said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

It was then, with her small hand gently gripping his in comfort, that he realised he didn’t even know her name.

“What’s your name?” He asked her, needing to know.

She smiled.

“Jeyne.”

A weak smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Jeyne…” He quietly said as he closed his eyes. “Thank you, Jeyne.”

 

 

-     **Myrcella  -**

 

 

 

She had thought the hardest part would be telling Tommen, but she could imagine nothing worse than watching her mother being forced to release her son. And there was nothing she could do nothing but watch her; she didn’t know what else she could do. Her mother - who had always so fiercely guarded her tears - wailed and wept over Joffrey with abandon.

The gathering ravens had not waited outside for long, now they all stood in her brother’s chambers, watching and whispering as her mother clung onto her first born for dear life, refusing to let him go. It took two of the Kingsguard to loosen her grip on Joffrey, to finally let him slip from her arms. And when her mother lifted her head, Myrcella barely recognised her.

“Who did this?” She suddenly cried. “My son – my boy -”

“It was an accident, your grace.” One of the Kingsguard as quick to reply. She didn’t remember his name. “It was dark, what with the storm. The king’s horse was startled. He fell… There was nothing to be done.”

It was easy to imagine that nothing had happened; all the damage was hidden under his golden hair. Her brother had fallen from his horse and hit his head, splitting open his skull. His death must have been quick. It might not have even hurt. That was what she told herself as she touched his cheek for the final time before his body was carted away. The next time she saw him, it would be before his body was taken to the crypts… And then it would be all over, one brother would be dead and the other a king.

“There was something strange…” Another voice suddenly piped up, timid and afraid. “Something lurking in the dark.” It was her grand-cousin, Lancel, who was but a ghost of his former self since the Battle of Blackwater. “A shadow.”

One of the knights, whose exasperated expression clearly showed that this was not the first time he had heard Lancel say this, quickly moved to step in front of him. He cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable under her curious gaze.

“It was dark, the storm made it hard to see. We should have sheltered from it – but the king insisted we return, didn’t want to miss the feast.” The knight explained, and Myrcella had to duck her head in fear of what her expression might show. She thought of her last words with Joffrey and wished that they had not been in anger. She wasn’t sure what was worse – imagining that he had died rushing back to her, to keep his word, or that her brother had died thinking she hated him.

She hoped neither was true. She couldn’t bear the weight of either of them on conscious.

“A shadow?” She repeated in a hollow voice. “What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing, princess. He’s not talking sense. The boy was by the king’s side when it happened – he’s not right in the head -” Another guard quickly interrupted and she shot him a sharp glance, shutting him up.

“Please allow him to answer my question, Ser.” She said to the guard before she turned her attention back to Lancel. Her grand-cousin shifted uneasily from foot to foot. She softened her tone when she spoke to him. “Lancel, what did you see?”

“It wasn’t right. It… came from the dark.” Lancel answered her, his voice shaking. He looked so terrified that for a moment, she almost believed him. It was easier for her to believe that shadows and monsters had killed her brother rather than the truth. She had always thought Joffrey would have a bloody end; it was like the songs always said – the worst ones never died well. For him to have simply fallen from his horse and hit his head on a stone… it didn’t make any sense.

“Out.” She thought she heard her mother say. “Everyone get out.”

Turning away from Lancel, she returned her attention to her mother. Her mother was sat on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking, but she wasn’t wailing anymore. Myrcella’s throat tightened, but she fought against the threat of tears. She needed to be strong; her mother needed her, as she never had before.

“No one is to tell Tommen. Either the Queen Regent or the Hand of the King will be the ones to tell him - and no one else.” She announced, ignoring the looks and the whispers. “Now, if everyone could please leave the room, my mother needs to grieve.”

Her uncle was the last to leave the room. He hesitated by the door, and she missed the troubled look which crossed his scarred features when she sat down next to her mother. There were tears in her mother’s eyes when she pulled her close, and Myrcella buried her face in her hair, as she had done when she was small. When her mother had held her like this, she had always felt so safe. But she didn’t feel safe anymore.

 

 

-     **Robb**   -

 

 

Even as he dreamed, a part of him he knew he was dreaming.

He was riding in a tourney, as a mystery knight. A lady’s favour was tied to his lance, a ribbon of both silver and gold. He faced lions and bears and stags and every manner of creature until there were none, until there was no one left. And when he won the tourney, he rode past every face to place a wreath of flowers on his lady’s lap. His Queen of Love and Beauty beamed at him and the hands which lifted the crown of flowers onto her head were covered in blood. He woke with a start.

The doors to his room – Jeyne’s room – burst open then; Theon stumbled in with a triumphant grin on his face and didn’t so much as pause to eye Jeyne, who was sat dutifully by his side, as always. It was early, Theon was barely dressed. Robb frowned at him over his breakfast, while Jeyne silently dismissed herself from the room.

“You’ll never guess what I just heard.” He announced animatedly. “That little shit Joffrey is dead!”

Robb ignored the pain in his shoulder and sat up as Theon continued, grinning broadly. “They say King Joffrey fell from his horse and bumped his pretty little head on a rock. They say you could hear Queen Cersei screaming even from the Stormlands.”

“And what of Lord Tywin? Does his army still march to meet us?”

“His army does,” Theon said, confirming his suspicions. “But without him.”

Theon glanced down at the letter in his hands and read, “The Lannister army still approaches but Lord Tywin, upon hearing the news of his grandson, placed his brother, Ser Kevan Lannister, in command and departed for the capital.” He looked up and shrugged. “That’s all it says.”

Robb knew he should have been happy.

Joffrey had tried kill his sisters and was the reason his father was locked up in chains. Joffrey was the monster who had hurt and tormented Myrcella. He was his enemy; his death should have brought him joy. Yet instead, Robb felt himself go cold with dread. With Joffrey dead, Tommen would be the king. Tommen - who was just a little boy - who Myrcella loved more than anything else – was now his enemy.

“I need to write a letter,” he realised. “I need to write to Lord Renly.”

Theon’s grin faltered. “What for?”

“This changes things.” He answered simply, though he knew there was nothing simple about what was coming. Tommen was a boy; he would be more easily controlled than Joffrey. Whatever action the Boy King made would be made by another’s hand, guiding him and manipulating him every step of the way. But the boy loved Myrcella - that Robb was sure of - and he would not wish to see her go. If Myrcella remained in King’s Landing - if she was the one controlling Tommen – then there was a chance that his father could be freed and the North’s part in the war would be over. The thought of going home made him hopeful, hopeful that for once the Gods might favour them.

 

 

-     **Myrcella**   -

 

 

She knew the route well now; the ill lit path was embedded in her mind.

She followed the jailer with none of the fear she had once possessed and pressed the gold coins into the palm of his gloved hand without a word. She knew how this worked; she knew that manners meant nothing in this place, not when there was gold to be given. She took the torch silently and stepped into the black cell. The sound of the door locking into place behind her no longer scared her.

“Lord Stark?” She called out to the darkness and heard, weaker than the times she had visited before, his murmur of response. She hurried forwards and pulled the bread and the skin of water out of her dress pocket with her free hand. Bread was all she could ever bring him, she had tried a chicken leg once but the smell had given her away. That had been… difficult to explain, to say the least.

When she spotted his hunched form in the corner of the cell, she dropped to her knees and handed the food and drink to him. He was thinner than the last time she had seen him, she regretted not visiting him sooner. She hadn’t known he was still being kept in the cells, she had thought her mother would have had some trace of empathy for the man who had been her husband’s best friend…

Not for the first time, she had been proven very wrong.

“Are you alright?” She asked as she sat down on the ground next to him. Robb’s father nodded and tore off a piece of bread to eat. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit you sooner, it’s been difficult for me to get away without anyone noticing…”

He reached for her hand and grasped it tightly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Myrcella. I am glad you’ve even come at all.” Robb’s father said as he squeezed her hand. He even smiled, which brought tears to her eyes. Though, his smile turned quickly into a frown as he lifted the hand she did not hold to her cheek, gesturing towards to the bruise she hadn’t even known was still there.

“It’s nothing.” She murmured, touching it self-consciously.

His expression was troubled, but he seemed to understand her reluctance to talk about it. Instead, giving her hand a small squeeze, he changed the subject. “Do you have any news of the North? Is Robb still marching on King’s Landing?”

“So much has happened,” she told him. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

Robb’s father smiled weakly. “Why not start from the beginning?”

Wringing her hands together, she knew there was nothing she could do but recount everything which had happened since her last visit. There could be no sugar-coating this time; he needed to know the truth. So she told him about her betrothal to Quentyn Martell and Tommen’s possible match with Asha Greyjoy, ignoring the concerned look on his face the best she could. It was harder for her to tell him about Robb; about the Young Wolf who the common folk said couldn’t be killed.

“Robb has won every battle,” she told him. “But if he loses, I fear there will be no mercy for him. No one tells me much – I don’t think they trust me – but I overheard my uncle and my grandfather arguing. My grandfather wants to see him dead. There will be no negotiations.”

“He’s just a boy…” Robb’s father said and she squeezed his hand.

“Joffrey is dead.” She murmured and a pang of pain followed her words. She hadn’t been able to talk about it, to anyone. Not even Ser Arys. Not even her own family, who shared her grief. “He died nine days ago. He was riding home after a hunt and he fell from his horse…”

“Yes, I heard,” Ned replied quietly. “Varys… he told me.”

It didn’t surprise her that the Spider visited him. The way Robb’s father looked at her, however, was a surprise. She would have thought that he was glad to hear that the king was dead. But then, remembering who it was she was talking to, she realised that he was sorry, not that the king was dead, but that her brother had died. Her lips twitched slightly – gratefully - and she tightened her grip on his hand.

“I never told you this, but my – my father -” She stumbled over the word, but she didn’t let it deter her – “He wanted me to tell you that you were right about Daenerys Targaryen. He wanted me to tell you he was wrong.”

Ned blinked in surprise. She wasn’t sure what suddenly made her remember her father’s last words, but she was glad she remembered before it was too late. “He wanted you to rule as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm until Joffrey…” She paused, this time her brother’s name left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wondered what kind of man Joffrey might have been if he had learnt how to be a king from someone like Robb’s father. “He made me promise that I would bring you back, that I would find a way…” _Promise me,_ he’d said. _Promise me._ She could only hope that her father would forgive her. “You were his true brother, you know. He told me that he married me to Robb because he is your son… and he knew that if he was anything like you, he’d treat me well.”

His forehead creased in sorrow. When he looked away from her, she heard him sigh.

“Robert was…” he started to say, and then sighed once more. “He was my friend…”

Shuffling closer, Myrcella clasped his hand in both of hers and laid her head upon his shoulder.

They stayed like that for some time, both quiet and contemplative. She was cold and she thought she could hear screaming coming from beneath them, but she was reluctant to move. She didn’t want to face her mother, who was deep in mourning, or her grandfather, who had arrived several days before and who was already working to control Tommen in a way which no one had ever really been able to control Joffrey. Tommen was frightened of him, and he used that to his advantage.

When an idea suddenly struck her, Myrcella lifted her head from Ned’s shoulder.

“You said that Varys visited you? What did he tell you?”

“Riddles and stories, mostly. Though he told me some of you, he said it’s you I should thank for my exile. And I do thank you for it; Varys told me the King wanted me executed.”  Robb’s father told her, smiling faintly.

“When I find out where you are being exiled to, I’ll find a way to write to Robb. If I can tell him where you are, he will be able to send a ship for you. As long as you are out of Lannister reach, it won’t matter what you do – because if anyone is going to win this war, it is Renly and Robb.” She promised, feeling a thrill of hope.

It felt good to be hopeful again. Regardless of her own fate, it made her happy to think that Robb would be reunited with his father again, that Lady Catelyn would have her husband back, and that he would see Winterfell and his children again. It made her feel better to know that she had helped do something right, by righting some of the wrongs made by her family.

 

 

\--

 

 

“May the Warrior grant him courage and protect him in these dark times. May the Smith grant him strength, that he might bear this heavy burden.” The High Septon called out, holding a new, golden crown above Tommen’s head. “And may the Crone, she that knows the fate of all men, show him the path he must walk and guide him through the dark places that lie ahead. In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Long may he reign!”

“Long may he reign!”

She glanced at her mother and she saw that she wasn’t cheering like everyone else, that she was staring ahead with a cold mask of indifference set into place. She wondered if she was thinking of Joffrey’s coronation and how happy she had been. Myrcella thought back to that day, her father’s body had barely been cold when her brother had been crowned. She remembered how Joffrey had smiled at her, his smile seemingly only for her. _Would you like to hear something funny, sister?_ He had whispered in her ear. _I should like to see you smile._

“You look too sad for such a happy occasion, princess.” Oberyn Martell said, startling her as he appeared so suddenly by her side. She opened her mouth to reply, but was stopped when she felt a hand fall heavily upon her shoulder. Prince Oberyn’s eyes hardened the moment her grandfather moved to her side. “Ah, Lord Tywin, I did not see you there.” He said, lying.

“Prince Oberyn.” Her grandfather greeted the prince with more coldness than she would have expected. His hand did not stray from her shoulder; it kept her rooted to the spot. She glanced between the two men nervously.

“Are you staying in the capital for long, Lord Tywin?” Prince Oberyn asked, smirking.

“That remains to be seen.” Her grandfather answered.

“Ah yes, I have heard that the Young Wolf is marching on Casterly Rock.” Prince Oberyn grinned. His eyes flickered to hers briefly and she thought she saw him smirk slightly, amused by whatever expression he saw on her face.  “They say he rides into battle on the back of a great wolf. They say he cannot be killed.”

Her grandfather’s grip on her shoulder tightened as she tried to move away.

“Is that what they say?”  

“And what do you think, Princess Myrcella?” The prince’s eyes slid to hers again, his expression half-curious, half-amused. “Do you believe what the common folk say? Is there any truth in it? You know this Stark boy best, after all.”

Myrcella hesitated, knowing she would have to choose her words carefully.

“I… I think it would be unwise to underestimate him, but no, I don’t believe what they say. He’s just a man.” She said, only half-believing herself. She held onto Robb’s promise. _There is only one place where I shall die and that is here, beside you._ Often it was all that kept her going. “And his direwolf isn’t big enough to die. Not yet, at least.”

The prince laughed and her grandfather released his hold on her shoulder.

Looking for a way to escape, she glanced over her shoulder at Tommen and was relieved when he lifted his hand and waved. Her brother was sat on his throne; his feet didn’t even touch the ground. He grinned at her and she smiled back. “If you’ll excuse me, grandfather – Prince Oberyn – I believe my brother wishes to speak with me.”

She ducked away before either one of them had a chance to respond. She hurried up the steps towards Tommen and cut the line of people which were gathered before him. Someone tutted, but she ignored them. Her brother grinned at her, his chubby cheeks flushed.

With some hesitation, Myrcella curtseyed.

“Your grace.” She said, but the words sounded wrong coming out of her mouth. Her brother looked so small on the throne; he didn’t look like a king, just a child playing pretend. Some of the swords which had been melted down to make the throne were bigger than he was.

“I want a cushion.” Tommen said, pulling a face. “This isn’t comfortable at all!”

“It’s not meant to be, dearest.” She replied as she rose from her curtsey, smiling slightly at the silly expression on Tommen’s face. “Remember, Aegon the Conqueror had it made that way, so that a king could never sit easy.”

“Well, _I’m_ the king now, not Aegon the Dragon and I say the king should be allowed a cushion.” Tommen complained, succeeding in making her laugh for the first time in days. Only Tommen could become a king and be more concerned about a cushion than the seven kingdoms he ruled. “Don’t you think?”

“You should pay more attention to your sister. She speaks more sense than you do.” Her grandfather said as both he and her mother approached the throne, surprising her. Under her mother’s cold gaze, she felt her smile slip from her lips. “You are the king, whether the throne is to your liking or not is inconsequential.”

“It was just a joke, grandfather. He didn’t mean anything by it.” She quickly said, her eyes flickering from the frightened look on Tommen’s face to her grandfather, who was observing them both with his usual severity. But unlike Tommen, she didn’t wither under his gaze.

“A king should not rely on his sister to defend him. A king should be able to speak for himself.” Her grandfather said as he turned his withering gaze upon Tommen. When she opened her mouth to argue, her mother held out her hand.

“Come, Myrcella. It’s time for us to change for the feast.”

The feast wasn’t for several hours, but she let her mother take her hand anyway. Her mother’s grip on her hand was firm as she led her away from the throne room, she didn’t release her until they were within sight of the holdfast.

“He should not speak to him like that. Tommen is only a little boy.” She found herself muttering as she and her mother crossed the drawbridge to the holdfast. “He’s frightened of him – no child should be frightened of their grandparent -”

“Enough.” Her mother snapped as she rounded on her, her expression more annoyed than angry. “You cannot truly be so naïve. Tommen is a boy – he has always been weak, never as strong as Joffrey – but he is the king now and he must learn what that means. My father will show him how to be a king. Your incessant coddling of him will only do him harm.”

“He isn’t weak; he’s just a _child_ – a child who no one ever cared for until now. All those years Joffrey spent terrorising him, and no one lifted a finger. Not even you! You knew what he was capable of and you did nothing.” She retorted angrily, gesturing towards the mark which was still visible on her cheek. “Do you even care that he did to me _exactly_ what father used to do to you?”

Her mother’s eyes flashed with emotion and for a moment she looked like she might strike her, but instead stalked away without another word. Myrcella watched her go, torn between anger and guilt. Smoothing imagined creases out of her dark blue dress, she knew she should not have said anything – but a part of her wished she had said more. She wished she had told her mother the truth, so that she might know all of the horrible things her beloved Joffrey had done – and yet, Myrcella knew she couldn’t. Her mother had lost her son, she had suffered enough. She knew she could not bear to burden her with the truth.

 

 

\--

 

 

If there was anything her brother should have been king of, it was his kittens.

As a newly crowned king, it was customary for him to receive gifts. Joffrey had demanded weapons, while Tommen had asked for kittens. Her brother had been given five new kittens, and he had been told to give each of them a name of all the great kings who had come before him. It had made her laugh when he had handed her a tiny, meowing ball of fur and heard him call it Visenya.

Tommen had never been more proud as when he had shown her his new kittens. He had named two after the sister-wives of Aegon the Conqueror and the others he had given names of his own choosing. As he ran about the King’s Chambers, his kittens followed him; wherever he went the tiny little things were at his heels. She lowered her book and watched as one of them – a small black one she believed was called Lady Whiskers – climbed up his leg. Tommen laughed as he swatted it away.

“All hail Tommen of the House Baratheon,” she giggled. “First of His Name, King of the Kittens and Protector of Cats. Long may he reign!”

Dissolving into a fit of laughter, neither of them noticed the door opening until she heard Ser Boros Blount clear his throat. Her smile quickly slipped from her lips. Tommen didn’t look surprised to see him; he scooped up Ser Pounce and trotted towards the knight.

“Can Myrcella come?” He asked him. “Ser Pounce too?”

Ser Boros hesitated at first, and then nodded. Tommen beamed at him and then turned his attention to her; he held out his hand and impatiently gestured for her to take it. She set her book down beside her and slipped off of the window seat.

“Where are we going?” She asked as she took hold of Tommen’s hand.

“My first council meeting.” He answered, clutching his kitten close to his chest as it tried to climb up his shoulder. “Grandfather says it’s important for a king to attend his own council meetings.”

For once, she held her tongue. As much as she disliked her brother being privy to conversations about war and battle and the dirty secrets of the realm, she was curious about what news she might hear of Robb and his father’s exile. During the short walk from her brother’s chambers to the Tower of the Hand, where her grandfather was holding the meeting, Tommen filled the silence with a list of all the things he was going to outlaw when he was king in his own right – vegetables being paramount.

“Your – your grace, I do protest.” Maester Pycelle greeted them, his jowls quivering. “The small council is no place for a lady!” She thought she heard Oberyn Martell snort, and then muttered something to her uncle. Both men grinned. “No – no, this cannot be allowed.”

No one paid him much attention after that, and she sat down beside her uncle – who she had still yet to say more than three words to – and Prince Oberyn, undisturbed. Tommen placed Ser Pounce on the table when he sat down and the small kitten rolled around the centre of it, playing with his tail. The council was a curious thing. There was no Master of Laws, as that had been her Uncle Renly’s position. There was no Master of Ships, as that position had been her Uncle Stannis’. The Master of Coin was absent, and her uncle Tyrion and Prince Oberyn Martell sat together at the table with no position to speak of.

Her grandfather was the last to enter the room, he sat at the head of the table with an air of composure the others lacked. And the others quickly fell silent under his gaze. When his eyes passed briefly over her face, he did not seem surprised to see her there. She smiled slightly, nervously, and his gaze moved on.

“Shall we begin?” He said, and there was a murmur of agreement around the table. His expression turned cold – well, colder than usual – when he rolled the piece of paper in his hand. “The Northerners have taken Ashemark, the Golden Tooth, the Crag, and the gold mines at Castamere, Nunn's Deep and the Pendric Hills.  They now march on Casterly Rock.”

She supressed the urge to smile.

“Perhaps now is the time we use Ned Stark to our advantage, use him to broker for peace.” Her uncle said, probably speaking more sense than this council was accustomed to. “That is all the Northerners want, after all.”

“And what of Renly Baratheon? The Northerners have allied themselves with him.” Varys replied. “Even if we give them Ned Stark, I’m not sure if they will go back on their word so easily. Not if the son is anything like the father…”

“Why not offer peace to these Northerners.” Prince Oberyn said with a strange glint in his eye. “Give the Stark boy his father back, then you will see how quickly alliances can crumble.” His eyes were fixed on her grandfather as he spoke.

They called him the Viper. She told herself not to forget that.

“What news do you have of my son?” Her grandfather demanded, steering the conversation in a different direction. He looked almost weary, she hadn’t known her grandfather was capable of such an emotion. “Does Robb Stark still insist on dragging him from camp to camp?”

“No word, my lord.” Varys said, but something in his tone made her suspect otherwise.

Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“Have you received anymore reports on the Targaryen girl?” Her uncle asked instead.

“The reports are growing fewer and fewer, but yes. Last I heard, the girl – and her three dragons – had been forced out of Qarth by its people. My little birds tell me she is, at this time, sailing to Pentos. Unfortunately, Jorah Mormont has ceased his reports on her. I believe he has grown fond of the girl…” Varys said, earning Tommen’s full, rapt attention.

_“Dragons?”_ Her brother whispered, his eyes flickering to hers in excitement. 

“Why Pentos?” Her uncle asked, and the Spider shrugged.

“To buy ships, I suppose.”

“The girl has no army, no ships, and possesses no great amount of gold. It will be years before her dragons are grown. She is of no immediate threat.” Her grandfather said, he made it sound so simple. Tommen sighed in disappointment and slouched in his chair, his attention returned to Ser Pounce. He wigged his fingers and the kitten pounced on his hand.

“Now, Robb Stark was not with his army when they took the Golden Tooth. Why is that?” She straightened at her grandfather’s words. She was too slow to school her features and did not miss the curious look Prince Oberyn shot her way. She settled against the back of her chair and worried her lower lip, trying – and failing – to seem disinterested.

“He was injured, my lord. Took an arrow to the shoulder at the Crag.” Varys was quick to reply. She felt the cold hands of fear wrap around her throat, choking her. Robb was injured. Robb was hurt. Robb was thousands of miles away and there was nothing she could do to help him. She rested her forehead against the palm of her hand, chewing absently on her lower lip as she tugged at a loose thread on her dress.

“Are you alright?” Her uncle asked, his voice low enough that only she could hear. Her eyes stung with tears as she finally looked at him, and she took in the concern etched into his features with a sharp, stab of guilt. She shook her head in response. She couldn’t bring herself to lie. Her uncle reached across the space between them and took her hand in his, squeezing it tightly.

“What about Myrcella?” She heard Tommen ask after some time had passed, her brother’s eyes meeting hers when she lifted her head in surprise. “Didn’t they want her too? That’s what Joffy said. He said that they were fighting for Myrcella too.”

Her cheeks warmed as every person around the table turned their attention upon her. She lifted her chin slightly, refusing to shrink under their gazes. Not knowing where to look, she turned to her grandfather, knowing he’d have the answers – he always did.

“Things have changed.” Was his response.

 

\--

 

 

On the day she was set to sail for Dorne, she couldn’t find Tommen anywhere.

Her brother – _his grace,_ King Tommen of House Baratheon – was hiding from her.

She searched high and low for him; she didn’t want to add her brother to the list of people she couldn’t say goodbye to. Ned Stark was at the top of that list, her mother – who had known she was visiting him all along – refused to let her see him. And in the days leading up to her departure from King’s Landing, there was nowhere Myrcella went without an accompaniment of guards. It was like they expected her to run, as if she had any place to run to anymore.

She was almost tempted to try, to see what they would do. She wondered if the guards would drag her to her chambers and bar the door. She wouldn’t put it past them. But her feet were sore and she was tired, she had been walking around the Keep all morning looking for Tommen. She was ready to give up, the thought of a nice warm bath was too tempting to resist. She sighed wearily as she crossed the drawbridge into the holdfast for the umpteenth time, wondering how it was possible that Tommen knew a hiding place she didn’t.  In all their years of playing hide and seek, Tommen had always been too frightened of dark corners and getting lost to ever stray too far from her sight.

“I’m sure the King will come out when he’s ready.” Ser Arys reassured her, but she wasn’t so sure. Joffrey was dead and she was being sent as far away as she could get. In his mind, he probably thought she was abandoning him. “He loves you dearly.”

She smiled at the knight, as he was the only one who bothered to be kind, and nodded.

“I’m sure you’re right.” She said as they rounded a corner. “Thank you, Ser Arys.”

Once they reached the doors to her chambers, she paused. She turned and spoke to Ser Arys, taking no notice of the others. “Please find my brother. It’s important I see him before I go. I have to talk to him – I have to tell him -”

The knight nodded and then bowed his head respectfully as she turned and disappeared through the doors to her chambers, glad it was the one place they could not follow her in to. She called out to the servants lingering at the foot of the stairs to have a bath prepared and made her way up to her rooms, shrugging off the ivory shawl draped around her shoulders.

Her handmaiden quickly helped her out of her dress as the bath was being prepared and she walked through to it in her small clothes, enjoying the feel of the steam on her bare arms. When she closed her eyes, it was almost – for just a moment – like she was at the hot springs near Winterfell. It had been one of her favourite places to go. How many happy hours had she spent there with Robb? Her lips twitched wistfully, wishing more than anything that she was back there with him.

Stepping out of the remainder of her clothes, she climbed into the deep bath and sighed.

“Leave me.” She said as she sank lower into the water. “Please.”

She missed whatever was said in response as she drew in a deep breath and submerged herself in the water.  In the water everything was still and silent, it was what she needed. She needed a moment to herself, to be alone, to recover, and to remember how to be strong and how to survive. It would take a week to reach Sunspear. And she was to marry Quentyn without delay.

Rising to the surface of the water, Myrcella gasped for breath. When her eyes opened, they stung with the tears she had been holding back for days. She had to be strong, she had been telling herself, for Tommen. But she was alone now, and there was no one to witness her anguish. Tears streaked down her cheeks and she leaned her forehead against the cool edge of the bath, making no real effort to hold in her sobs.

It was when she was alone that she truly understood just how much she missed Winterfell and her life there. It hurt even more knowing _she_ had been the one who had decided to go, to foolishly rush back into her mother’s arms. Myrcella wiped the tears from her eyes and wondered if Robb thought about her as much as she thought about him, if he missed her as she missed him. She wondered if he was angry with her for leaving, and if he blamed her as much as she blamed herself for everything that had happened.

She didn’t know how long it took for her tears to run out, but eventually they did and then there was a knock on the door. The water was barely warm, but she hardly noticed. She ran her fingers through her hair, soft with all scented oils the servants had put in the bath, and glanced over her shoulder. Her handmaiden hesitated in the doorway, looking nervous.

“Yes? What is it?” Myrcella asked, her voice still a little thick.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Her handmaiden asked, ignoring her question. Myrcella made herself nod, she was feeling a little better, at least. “Ser Arys is outside. He told me to tell you that he’s found the King.”

Myrcella sat up quickly, and waved her handmaiden forward. Her handmaiden held out a large towel as she climbed out of the bath and she quickly stepped into it.  It was warm and soft and she wrapped herself up in it as she walked back into her chambers. She dried her hair the best she could with a small flannel and then left it loose, knowing her mother would make her style her hair in some ridiculous braided fashion before she left for Dorne. She was being sold for Dornish loyalty, she would be dressed and presented as a pretty little Southron prize she was. Her handmaiden helped her dress quickly, choosing a soft pink gown for her to wear. It was one of her last Northern dresses, her mother had had all the gowns she had brought with her from Winterfell taken away. They have no place here, she had said. _Just like me._

Ser Arys smiled when she stepped out of her chambers at last, the knight made no mention of her red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks but touched her shoulder comfortingly. She sighed, grateful for him. The knight had been an unexpected kindness, and she was more than a little glad he would be the one coming with her to Dorne.

“We found the king, he was hiding in the kitchens.” Ser Arys said. “He’s in his chambers now.”

“Thank you for finding him.” She murmured as they began to walk to the King’s Chambers. “I wonder why he was there…” There had been a reason she hadn’t thought to look there - Joffrey had killed Tommen’s fawn in the kitchens, and he had been terrified of the place ever since. She wondered when he had stopped being afraid.  

Tommen was sat on his bed when she entered his chambers, his knees black were with dirt and his eyes as red as hers from tears. He didn’t look up when they entered the room, he stared down at the floor stubbornly. He was acting like she was there to scold him. The knights left her alone with him and she sat down on the bed beside him, taking his hand in hers.

“I don’t want you to go away again.” Tommen eventually mumbled.

“I don’t want to go away either, but I have to.” She was going away to become a stranger’s wife, to live in a strange place with no hope of escape and she would have to live with it somehow, for her family. _The things I do for love,_ she thought to herself, helplessly.

“It’s not fair. _I’m_ the king. _I_ should be able to stop you from being sent away.” Tommen’s voice broke as tears started to well up in his eyes. He pulled his hand away from hers to rub the moisture from his eyes. “It’s not fair.” He repeated. “You shouldn’t have to leave.”

“I know.” She murmured, because he was right, it wasn’t fair. “But that’s the way things are, unfortunately. Perhaps when you’re a king in your own right, you can change that - and do more than just outlaw beets.” Tommen smiled slightly and slipped his hand back into hers. “When you’re of age, you’ll have the power to change things. If you listen to wise people and do what you think is right for the kingdom and your people, you could be a great king one day. Don’t be like Joffrey.”

Tommen’s brows drew together for a moment, and he stared down at their hands thoughtfully. Her brother was still young, but he wouldn’t be a boy forever. All she could do was hope that when he was king, he’d remember her words and be a better ruler than those before him. When he looked back at her, he nodded. He seemed to understand.

“Do you miss him? Do you miss Joffrey? Because… because I don’t.”

“It’s alright not to miss him, no matter what mother says.” She told him, squeezing his hand. Tommen, more than anyone, had suffered at Joffrey’s hand. “He wasn’t a good brother, towards the end… But I do miss him. He wasn’t always… he wasn’t always cruel.”

She wasn’t sure if Tommen had ever known that side of Joffrey, as it had been about the time he was born that Joffrey had changed. There had always been something dark inside of Joffrey, a glint in his eye whenever someone had fallen over or whenever their father had yelled at someone. But he had held her hand once, as Tommen now did, with gentleness and love. It was that person, that side of him, she missed.

“Will you stay with me for the rest of the day? Mother got me some new toys for Ser Pounce and the others.” When Tommen smiled, all traces of his tears and his troubles disappeared. She felt herself smile too as she reached out to ruffle his golden hair.

“Of course.” She murmured softly. “There’s nothing else I would rather do than spend the day with you and Ser Pounce.”

There was one thing she would rather do – escape the Keep and not stop running until she reached Robb – but that wasn’t something she could tell Tommen, or anyone for that matter. Because in only a handful of hours, the life she had lived in the North would be gone – like it had never happened – and she would belong to Dorne.  

 

 

\--

 

 

She was dressed in a gown made of silk and Myrish lace and her hair was braided around crown of head with little silk threads of red and gold woven in. Her mother had told her servants that she would arrive in Dorne looking the same as she did now, that she would leave King’s Landing and arrive in Dorne as the most beautiful princess the Seven Kingdoms had ever known.

“May the Seven guide the princess on her journey. May the Mother give her health. May the Crone give her wisdom. May the Warrior give her courage. May the Smith grant her strength…” She could hear the High Septon offering her blessing as she made her way down the long steps to the sea, it gave her little comfort. It wasn’t the Gods who gave her strength.

Tommen – her sweet brother – was still crying, even as Septa Eglantine cooed and wiped his cheeks. Saying goodbye to him had been the hardest part, as she had always known it would be. But she refused to let herself cry. If it were her mother in her place, she wouldn’t shed a single tear. She looked back over her shoulder, and saw that her mother was staring ahead. Her face betrayed nothing, and neither would Myrcella’s.

When she took her last step of freedom, she looked back just once – for the last time.

She was Myrcella Baratheon. She was a queen’s daughter. She was the wife of Robb Stark, heir to the North. She was strong, she would not be broken. She held onto Ser Arys’ arm and stepped aboard the boat, it was time, he told her. She had said her goodbyes, and so she looked away from her family and King’s Landing and didn’t let herself look back.

 

 

-       **Robb** -

 

 

Theon burst through the closed doors and ran into his room, panting. There was a letter clutched in his hand, but there wasn’t a triumphant look on his face – not this time. Theon looked at Jeyne, who was checking the stitches on his shoulder, and jerked his chin towards the door. Jeyne didn’t say anything, she left the room without a word. She closed to doors behind her with a small, shy smile.

“What is it?” Robb found himself asking, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. “Is it my father? Her mother?” Theon shook his head and he remained silent as he stood there, struggling to catch his breath. “Have they found Arya? Theon, just tell me -”

Theon didn’t say anything, he just handed him the letter.

“What -?”

“Just read it.”

There were only two lines of writing on the small piece of stained parchment. Rushed words from a messy hand.

_Rioting erupted in King’s Landing. A deal has been made between Lannisters and Martell._

_Sealing their allegiance, Princess Myrcella wed Prince Quentyn Martell._

For a long moment, he was entirely still. He stared down at the letter, unwilling to believe what he had read was true. And then slowly, as he sucked in a breath, the words began to make sense. As he read the words again, over and over, something tugged at his heart and his eyes darkened, caught between anger and despair. He had known, she had warned him long ago, but this letter made it real.

He wanted nothing more than to cast the letter to the fire, to watch the flames consume it, leaving it nothing more than ash, and forget having ever read it, but he couldn’t. He clenched his fist around the letter, crumbling it as he clutched it to his heart. He remembered another letter, from another time, and he cursed it to the Old Gods, and the Seven Hells too. _Don’t fight for me this time,_ she had said. _Don’t come find me._ The next time he saw her, he would ask her why she asked for something he could never give _. Don’t risk another war._

He would fight to his last breath.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi my lovelies, 
> 
> I'm so sorry this update as taken foreeeever. My laptop decided to kick the buckle a couple of weeks ago so I lost all my files and had to start this chapter all over again. I'm borrowing a friend's laptop until I can get a new one of my own, so the next update shouldn't take too long. Oh and if you spot any mistakes please let me know, I did write most of this at about four in the morning and my head gets a little fuzzy, haha. 
> 
> I was actually thinking about including some new POVs, but I'm not sure yet. Is that something you'd want to see or should I keep it how it is, with just Robb and Myrcella's perspective?
> 
> As usual, thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)


	17. Chapter 17

 

-     **Arys  -**

 

His princess remained ever strong.

Only briefly, when the ship had sailed far out of the sight of King’s Landing, had her resolve faltered. She had leaned into her septa’s side and sighed, allowing her the woman to comfort her as she began to cry. Though he was certain they all understood, everyone was quick to ask her why, begging her to tell them the reason for her tears.

But once her tears had dried on her cheeks, her strength did not break again.

The journey to Dorne was long and relatively pleasant, but the heat on the third day was stifling. No air had filled the sails on that day, leaving the men below to do all the work. The oars had creaked and groaned and moved the ship only a little. Most had remained below deck, trying to escape the heat in the shade. His princess, however, had stood at the bow of the ship, looking out over the sea in silence. He had, at first, wondered if he should ask her what she was looking for, but decided it was unwise. As with all women, she kept her secrets closely guarded.

The wind had returned to them in the night and the rest of the journey had been smooth, and she had looked over the open water every day. On the morning that they were set to arrive at the port of Sunspear, he was stood outside of her chambers, waiting for her to emerge.

“Princess?” He called, knocking lightly on the door. “Sunspear is within sight. May I come in?” When he heard a murmur of response, he slowly opened the door. She was alone, staring out of the small cabin window with her chin resting on her knees. She tore her eyes away from the sea when he entered, her expression was calm – though her eyes gave her away, they were red again, from crying.

“You look lovely, princess.” He said, and she smiled faintly. When he looked at her, he recalled the name some gave her mother – the Light of the West – it seemed now, that that light had moved on from the mother to the daughter. She wore a gown of crimson Myrish lace and in her hair, amongst the curls and the braids, was a small golden crown. She looked every bit the princess she was, she would do the Queen proud.

“Is it time?” She asked, and when he nodded, she sighed resignedly. Her gaze fell to her hands. “If I asked you to, Ser Arys, would you steer the ship around and take me away from this place? Would you take me home?”

He was silent for a moment, contemplative. He knew his answer, he had known the instant she had asked what it would be. He would do anything she asked of him, and it troubled him. So instead of answering, he simply bowed his head. Myrcella seemed to understand.

She eventually stood, running her palms down the side of her dress, smoothing out creases which weren’t there. As she left the room silently, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was she was thinking about. He followed, wondering if her thoughts had strayed to Robb Stark, the boy he was certain she still cared for. Anyone could see it, if they looked hard enough. His princess hid her thoughts well, but sometimes – only sometimes – she let some things show. 

Like her mother, his princess walked with her chin raised and her back straight. She walked out onto the deck with poise and pride, watching as Sunspear grew ever closer with nothing but polite interest showing on her face. The ancient stronghold held none of the grandiose of the Red Keep, but was made beautiful by what surrounded it. When compared with the fertile life and vibrant greenness of his home in the Reach, the glittering ocean and sun-baked earth was like nothing he had ever seen before.

And on the docks, the commonfolk were watching, waiting for a glimpse of the princess.

As the boat pulled into the harbour, a royal litter arrived. It was a large, extravagant thing, made with curtains made of the finest silks and carried by half a dozen men. Myrcella hesitated before she allowed him to help her off of the ship, looking back at the ocean one last time.

The litter carried Myrcella to the courtyard of the Tower of the Sun, where the Martells were awaiting her arrival. They had been kind enough – theirs words, not his - to give Myrcella a day before she was carted off to the Sept and made to marry the Prince. He rode beside the litter on a dusty brown mare, and smiled whenever she looked his way. The commonfolk stared openly as the litter passed through the narrow, winding streets and he could hear the gathering crowd shouting out her name; it seemed they were excited that there was now another princess in Dorne. Myrcella stared ahead with her hands clasped together on her lap. The picture of poise, she didn’t seem to be aware of any of it. He longed to reach out to her, to pat her hand - to say anything which might ease her suffering, but knew he could not. It was not his place to comfort her, she was a princess of the realm.

Bells were ringing throughout the city, they could be heard as the litter was carted through the imposing Threefold Gate. The gates cut through the narrow alleys and crowded bazaars, leading straight up to the Old Palace and the Tower of the Sun. He looked up, squinting against the brightness of the sun. It was not yet midday, but already the heat was unbearable. His armour made it impossible for the breeze to be of any comfort, the sweat poured off of him. Suddenly, the few months he had spent in the freezing, bitter cold of Winterfell – before he and the other guards had been forced to return to King’s Landing – were a fond memory. He recalled the snow and the ice wistfully, anything was better than this. Though, the smell of spices and the sea were a welcomed change after the stench of King’s Landing in the height of summer.

As they rode into a courtyard of stone and terracotta tiles, a small group of people stepped out from the arched, open doorway of the tower. He dismounted his horse and servants all dressed in white quickly rushed forward. The horses were taken away while he moved to the litter and held out his hand for Myrcella to take. She hesitated before she stepped out; her fingers were trembling when her hand slid her hand into his. Helping her out of the cushioned litter, she moved with admirable grace as she approached people he knew she didn’t want to meet.

And there, stood beneath the arched entryway, were the two princes.

They were both of similar height, stood only a little shorter than the princess – though, considering her willowy frame, the same could be said of many men – and one was handsome while the other was plain. But the plainer one – Myrcella’s prince – was stocky, decently built, while the other one still had the lankiness of a boy. He was almost amused by the difference between the two brothers. Myrcella’s prince had a nervous look to him; he wore a sombre, serious expression, while his brother grinned from ear to ear, as if he was the one who was looking upon his beautiful bride. Prince Quentyn was not, perhaps, the sort of Dornish Prince that young girls dreamed of at night - his brother came close, with his dark, curly hair and handsome features – but he had an honest face, and seemed the sort which could be trusted. He did not look like the kind of man which would treat his princess poorly. When she approached him, he did not smile, but he bowed his head respectfully and lightly kissed her outstretched hand.

“Princess Myrcella,” he said in a way of greeting. “Dorne welcomes you.”

As courtesies were exchanged, he looked around him, curious. The two princes led the way through the tower to the throne room. The throne room was in the heart of the tower, in a large round room with walls made up of windows and coloured glass. The floor was made of pale marble, and in the centre of the room, sat upon one of the twin thrones, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Princess Arianne rose from the throne and clasped her hands together in excitement.

Dressed in flowing silks of varying shades of orange, reminding him of the setting sun, she wore a necklace made of rubies and gold bracelets that ran up to her elbow. A gold snake with little rubies for eyes curled around her upper arm. She held out her hands as she approached and embraced Myrcella as a sister, kissing both her cheeks. She was so small, she barely reached Myrcella’s shoulder.

“I am so glad to finally meet you, Princess.” She exclaimed, her voice was soft and sweet. “On behalf of my father, who sadly could not be here to greet you, I welcome you to Dorne. I hope, in time, we will call each other sister, as I know we shall be dear friends.” Her large, dark eyes swept around the room as she spoke, meeting his for the briefest instant. He thought he saw her smile widen before her gaze returned to Myrcella. “It is my express wish that you be happy here.”

Myrcella looked – just for a moment – a little lost for words. Whatever she had been expecting, it seemed this wasn’t it. She pressed her lips together, a nervous habit she’d developed from a young age, before she spoke.

“Thank you, your kindness warms my heart. I have never had a sister, but I have always wished for one. I too hope that I may be able to call you that, Princess Arianne.” His Princess said, her courtesies as polished as ever. His heart swelled in pride.

It was not long before Princess Arianne beamed at her and they walked together, arm in arm, through to the palace. They were holding a feast in welcome that evening, giving Myrcella the rest of the day to rest after such a long journey. And when the two princes bid Myrcella and Princess Arianne farewell, off to deal with politics, it struck him as strange that the younger one – Trystane – was the one who looked most hesitant to leave, his eyes lingered on Myrcella longer than they should. He told himself to forget that.

 

 

\--

 

 

After half a day’s rest, Myrcella emerged from the chambers she would be residing in until she was wed. Having bathed and dressed for the feast, she looked better for it, especially now that she was out of the gown she had been sent from her home in. She seemed a little lighter in her spirits. She smiled when she saw when waiting for him, looking more like usual herself in a gown of Baratheon gold.

The feast was being held in one of the many gardens of the palace, under the night sky and in the now – blessedly – cool air. The feast had been arranged by Princess Arianne and differed so greatly from the welcoming feasts at Winterfell that it made him smile. There were singers and fire breathers and juggling jesters, something which the Starks – who had been so dreary – had never bothered with. Myrcella had seemed startled at first, by the sheer amount of people and celebration going on, but she had recovered quickly and smiled whenever anyone looked her way.

He was glad he was not made to eat the food, the colourful array of dishes looked entirely too much for him. It had, however, made him happy to see how quickly Myrcella took to it; she enjoyed the overwhelming spices as if she had been eating them all her life. And when the feast was finished and the dancing began, he thought he saw the makings of a real smile on her face, when she was towed from her seat by Princess Arianne and made to dance with her. He knew what her true smiles looked like, they were the ones which reached her eyes and made them sparkle, the ones which had never strayed from her face whenever she had been near Robb Stark. He hoped, for her sake, that she could learn to let go of him. If she could mourn her brother so strongly, someone who had hurt her the way he had, then he didn’t like to think how she would endure losing someone she loved so much – because the boy would be dead soon, that he was certain of. The boy was winning his battles, but he wouldn’t win the war, not if Tywin Lannister was still alive.

Her laugh caught his attention, reaching his ears even over the music. It gave him hope. But when he saw her dancing, and saw how she laughed as her partner swirled her around, his hope diminished slightly. Tearing his eyes off of her, he saw that it was the wrong prince who was making her laugh. It was Prince Trystane who made her laugh, while Myrcella’s prince was sat at the table still, talking in a grave tone to the knight beside him. Arys watched him, wondering if his attention would turn to his bride, but it never did.

 

 

-     **Myrcella**   -

 

 

On her wedding day, as her handmaidens hurried to get her ready, all she could do was stare down at the breakfast she had been given.

Her eyes stung as she stared at the small plate of lemon cakes; it reminded her of Sansa. She had been urged to eat, but she couldn’t, not if she wanted to avoid it making a reappearance. And when she heard her handmaiden, Rosamund softly call her name, she blinked. She shook herself from her thoughts and forced herself to look up, knowing that it meant looking at the mirror in front of her.

“Would you like something to drink, m’lady?” Rosamund asked and she shook her head. As much as she was tempted by the idea of chasing away her troubled thoughts with wine, she knew she couldn’t. If she was drunk at her wedding, well, she would risk saying more than she should. Even if she quite enjoyed the thought of how they would all look when she announced that she would rather see them all burn than be forced to call them family. Calling Arianne Martell her sister had left a sour taste in her mouth. She had sisters. Sansa and Arya and even that dead child, Barra. They were – and always would be – more her sister than some Dornish stranger who’s brother she had been sold to.

As she looked in her reflection, she was reminded – painfully – of another day, where the sunlight and snow had caught in her hair, loosening the pretty flowers which Catelyn Stark and her lady’s maid had woven there.

She looked just as much of a stranger as she felt.

Her gown was surely the most beautiful thing she had ever laid her eyes upon. It was a garment fit for a queen. The silks were from the finest markets in Pentos, the lace was Myrish and the jewels had supposedly been worn by Prince Doran’s mother on her wedding day. The white-gold dress, with a bodice constructed out of jewels and fine lace, was said to resemble the dress Princess Daenerys wore when she was wed to Maron Martell. A lace veil hid her face and it fell to her waist, secured into place by a band of jewels which were tucked neatly into the braid at the front of her hair. The ends of her hair tickled the small of her back, which was bare and exposed.

“Now you are a true princess of Dorne.” One of the servants crooned, showering her in a mist of different scents, leaving her eyes stinging and watery. “The Prince will love you like Aemon the Dragonknight loved Princess Naerys.”

“Like something from a song.” Someone else exclaimed.

Myrcella rolled her eyes, an action that went unseen behind her veil.

Somewhere, bells were ringing.

The ominous sound followed her as she left her chambers, haunting her steps as she walked through the palace and kept growing louder and louder. The sound made her think of Joffrey. The bells weren’t ringing for death, but it sure as hell felt like it to her. As she was swept into a carriage, she supposed someone _was_ dying. Myrcella Stark was meant to die today, Myrcella Baratheon too. After today, she would – in their minds – belong to them. She’d be Princess Myrcella of House Martell. A bitter part of her laughed at the very thought of it.

As the carriage rolled through the streets, the haze of the sun swimming along the tops of the buildings, she saw that there were crowds and crowds of people, waiting and cheering, as if this were the wedding of a king and a queen. She remembered, with a fondness edged with pain, the quiet event which had been her wedding with Robb.

She had been so afraid on her last wedding day, nothing like what she felt now. She was torn between anger and sadness, both emotions were too strong and kept trying to pull in her one direction, to hatred or depression, to bitterness or melancholy. It was tearing her apart. And as she looked out of the window at the rapidly approaching Sept, all she could suddenly think of was the song which had been sung at her wedding feast, it was trapped in her head, forcing her to remember.

_I loved a maid as fair as summer,_

_With sunlight in her hair_

The carriage stopped. She heard the Dornish guardsman clear his throat.

 _Forgive me_ , she found herself pleading as she was helped out of the carriage.

The Sept of Sunspear paled in comparison to the grandeur of the Great Sept of Baelor, but nonetheless, there was a certain charm to it. And at the top of the steps and stood by the massive golden doors, was Ser Arys. The knight, taking the place of her father, stepped forward and took her arm. Her fingers tightened around his arm as the great golden doors were opened, and the knight squeezed her wrist, as though to tell her that all would be well. But it wouldn’t, she knew that…

She stared ahead, her eyes filling with tears. Quentyn was waiting for her, already stood patiently beneath the alters to the Mother and the Father. She was grateful for her veil, with it no one seemed to notice that she was crying.

Ser Arys held her steady as they descended the steps into the sept, the crowd parting in half to let them pass. As it had been when she had married Robb, she was alone. No one from her family was there, her only piece of home was her dear, loyal knight. As she passed, she caught sight of Trystane and Arianne, who were both smiling brightly. Their smiles were no comfort to her.

The ceremony passed in a sort of strange blur, the songs were too long, and the candles too hot. The rich smell of incense left her head swimming. And throughout the ceremony, she didn’t let herself look at Quentyn. She stared on ahead, her tears thick and constant, stubbornly rolling down her flushed cheeks. Ser Arys, stepping forward once more to take the place of her father, silently unclasped her Baratheon cloak and folded it over his arm. She looked over her shoulder only then, eyes fixed on the cloak of black and gold. It was a symbol of the false name which she both hoped and feared was being stripped from her for good.

When Quentyn moved, she looked away. She fixed her gaze ahead, refusing to look at him as he brushed her hair over one shoulder so he could drape the Martell cloak over her shoulders. The beautiful orange bridal cloak was lighter than the Baratheon one, and the clasp was cold against the hollow of her throat. The Septon smiled, smiling too brightly for her liking, and lifted his hands as if he was to begin yet another prayer. But as his gaze flickered from Myrcella to Quentyn, she realised that it was time. She had to speak the words. _Seven hells,_ she thought. There was no turning back now. She turned slowly, reluctantly, and pressed her lips together as Quentyn moved forwards, his hands rising to lift her veil.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” her cheeks were still wet with tears when he pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, his gaze lowered politely. “And take you for my lady and wife.” He seemed to want to look at her just as much as she wanted to look at him. For all she knew, he wanted this marriage as much as she did. She had never thought to ask.

As Quentyn took a step back, the Septon clasped his hands together.

“Here in the sight of gods and men,” he exclaimed, “I do solemnly proclaim Prince Quentyn of House Martell and Princess Myrcella of House Baratheon to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

 _Too late_ , she thought grimly as she took Quentyn’s arm. She was already cursed. She had to be. She had lost a child, a father, a brother and the one she loved, all in the space of a year. If that wasn’t a curse, she didn’t know what was.

The banquet was held back in the castle of Sunspear, in the great hall. There were more guests at the feast than there had been at the wedding, filling the hall with louds voices and songs. It was grander than her welcoming feast had been, though it had the same atmosphere. There were entertainers and singers, fire breathers and actors, all waiting for the celebration to begin. Many toasts were made, reminding her a little of her and Robb’s wedding, and she and Quentyn danced but once, her new husband claiming he preferred not to.

As she sat silently, dwelling solely upon her own unhappiness, she considered – for the second time that day - drinking her weight in wine, but decided against it. If she was to be humiliated during a bedding ceremony for a second time, she would prefer to be of sound mind. She knew very well that if she wept, it would merely spur them on more.

“Would you care to dance, princess?” She looked up, blinking in surprise at the sight of Prince Trystane. She looked to Quentyn, supposing she ought to seek his permission, but he was deep in discussion with the person beside him. She looked back to his brother and nodded gratefully. His dancing the previous night had made her laugh and the jokes he had whispered into her ear had been funny.

It would be a distraction, she supposed. She needed a distraction.

The singers sang songs she did not recognised – songs of the Dornishmen and the Rhoynar – and she allowed herself to be lost in it, her thoughts a blur when matched with the fast pounding of drums and the flurry of sounds. She danced with Trystane for a moment; he was more practiced at dancing than his brother and light on his feet, before the partners switched and she was twirled around and met with a face she did not recognise. She danced with stranger after stranger until she spotted Ser Arys step up and she was soon paired with him. He stumbled and danced poorly, but it didn’t matter.

In the back of her mind, she remembered how Jory Cassel had been kind to her, how he had helped her during the bedding ceremony. She wondered if Ser Arys would save her as Jory once had. She looked around the room, looking for the one person who might be able to understand and who would be able to do something to help her. Princess Arianne was dancing with one of her guests, looking so beautiful it put everyone else in the room to shame. Myrcella waved at her when their eyes briefly met and the princess – her so-called sister – beamed at her.

“Myrcella!” Arianne called as she broke away from the dancing and approached, her smile was too bright to be true. “Sweet sister, what are you doing here all alone? You should be dancing! This is _your_ wedding feast, after all!”

 _Sweet sister._ Joffrey had called her that.

“Arianne – sister – can I ask something of you? I wasn’t sure who I could ask.” She asked and at once, Arianne nodded. The princess stepped closer, looking intrigued, like she was letting her in on a secret. “I hope can I be honest with you. This isn’t something I want everyone knowing. It’s about the bedding… I – I am afraid.” She had to remember that she was supposed to be a maid. She dragged up memories of how afraid she had been the night she had wed Robb, how they had grabbed her and torn her clothes off her, and of how she had shaken and wanted to weep for her mother. She relived her fear in the hope that it would show on her face. “Please understand, I’ve lived through it once already, I don’t wish to go through that humiliation again."

“I understand, sister.” Arianne smiled softly and she touched her arm gently. “I can have someone quietly escort you to the wedding chambers, if you would prefer it. My dear brother will come to you later; I imagine he’s still enjoying the feast at the moment.”

She almost shuddered. She could just imagine it – him coming to her deep in his cups, fumbling around in the dark, touching her… And she would have to let him. If she didn’t, she wasn’t sure what would happen to her.

Turning away from her with a sweet smile, Arianne called over Ser Arys. The knight was stood with an almost laughable frown on his face near a harp player. Hearing his name, he looked up. Whenever he looked at Arianne, he wore an odd expression. Myrcella wondered if he mistrusted her too, if that was the reason why. He stalked across the hall to them quickly and that look on his face deepened when Arianne touched his arm.  She thought she heard Arianne speak to him, telling him where to take her, but she was once more lost in her thoughts.

She wanted to run away, to hide, to do anything but willingly walk into bed with a man who was not her husband – and never would be, no matter what words they had said in the Sept. But she knew she had to, and it made her sick. She would have to do her duty; she would have to lay with the Dornish prince she barely knew.

 _Oh Robb,_ she thought miserably, _please forgive me._

 

\--

 

 

Myrcella paced alone for a long time, wringing her hands together as she listened to the sounds of the hall below her and feared for what was going to come. She had undressed the moment she had stepped through the door, shedding the Martell cloak to be free of the terrible reminder _\- one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever -_ and the Dornish dress, leaving her stood, pacing, in her small clothes. They were all she had left which was her own. She didn’t even have her grandmother’s necklace anymore, she had left it behind, in Winterfell.

The room was very grand, fit for a Prince of Dorne and his Princess, with large open windows and delicate curtains which danced in the wind. There were two archways that lead out onto a balcony and looked out over the city and the sea.

For some time, she had stared across the tops of the golden structures and been struck by the strange and foreign beauty of Dorne. She had looked at the ocean and counted all the ships she saw, wishing nothing more than to be on one of them. She wanted to go home to her mother and her uncle and her brother, and to the North, to the life she had made there. She wanted to be saved, to be rescued, to be taken from her tower - her _prison_ \- like a princess in a song. But most of all, she just wanted Robb. She whispered his name under her breath like a prayer, hoping it would give her strength.

In despair, she ran her fingers through her hair and pulled out the lace veil which had been fixed around her braid. She let it fall to the floor and kicked it away. From then on she paced, relentlessly stalking the width of the room over and over until, eventually, Quentyn came to her. She had expected him to come to her in his cups, but instead when he stepped through the door, his expression was serious. He didn’t say anything; he just merely bowed his head to her respectfully and moved across the width of the room to pour himself some wine.

“You are very beautiful.” He quietly said before he lifted his cup of wine to his lips. She smiled, a reflex, if nothing else. “I suppose we – we -”

She nodded. He did not have to say it, she knew what he meant.

His expression seemed to mirror her own as he set down his wine, moving across the room to her with his head still bowed. As he stopped before her, awkwardly pausing to drag his shirt over his head, she kept her gaze down. If she looked away, it would be over and done with. The quicker the deed was done the better.

In the back of her mind, she told herself that she was a frightened maid. But she didn’t need to pretend. She didn’t know if she had ever felt so afraid. Quentyn, clearing his throat, looked away from the sea which glistened so beautifully to the right of them, and met her gaze.

His hand lifted and he touched her cheek. When he drew his hand away and tears dripped from his fingertips, she realised that she was crying. “You’re crying.” He said softly, though it sounded more like a question than anything else.

“Because I am so happy.” She murmured pitifully. “This is all I ever dreamed.”

If he heard the lie, he did not show it.

As he looked back to the sea, she realised that - not once - had they kissed. He had pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth during the ceremony and a polite kiss to her cheek after their dance, but that was all. She supposed, before it came to the inevitable end, she would need to kiss him. She stepped forward, knowing she had to do her duty.

Quentyn was not as handsome as his brother, his features were plainer, less comely, but his face was kind. She fixed her attention on that, forcing herself to be grateful that, at the very least, her jailers were kind. She laid her hand on his shoulder, being the one to step forward. He was shorter than her, so all she needed to do was step forward and his mouth was pressed against hers.

The way his lips returned her kiss was strange and unfamiliar. Robb had always kissed her as though he could forever, like he had a hunger and a fire within him which would never go away. He had wanted her and she had wanted him and his kisses told her that he loved her, that she was his and he was hers. Quentyn, however, was a stranger, and so were his lips.

His kissed her chastely, briefly, and touched only her waist for a fleeting moment before his hands returned to his sides.

“We ought to get this done.” He said quietly, keeping his eyes lowered. His serious face made her more nervous than a smiling one would. As she nodded, tears started to streak down her cheeks again. _Forgive me,_ she thought once more.

A small part of her wondered, as she shed what she hoped was the last of her tears, where Robb was. She tried to imagine him, but she couldn’t. She _couldn’t,_ not when she was turning away from the sea and moving to the bed in the centre of the room – the bed which her new husband slid awkwardly into. As she laid back, head cushioned by a stack of silk cushions, Quentyn leaned over her, his expression serious as he brushed the back of his finger across her cheek. He did not kiss her again; instead, he kissed her neck. His nose bumped against her chin and his hands were clumsy and did not seem to know where to touch her. She wondered, briefly, if he had ever lain with a woman before.

But as one hand slipped down to that private place, she knew he had. He touched her there, fingers hurried and unwelcome. He touched her routinely, as if counting each stroke to meet a certain number before he drew away, hands returning to himself.

She watched, unmoving, as he unlaced his britches beneath the coverlet. She squeezed her eyes closed, supressing a whimper as he hovered over her, setting to work at unfastening the lace strings of her small clothes.

As he drew back, his brows drawn in concentration, she thought of Robb. She imagined his face, how angry he would be, and how very disappointed. She had to turn her face away, pressing her cheek to her pillow to disguise the sob which tore through her.  All she could think, as her Dornish husband’s fumbling fingers pushed her shift off of her body, was that she was betraying him. _I am yours, and you are mine._ But she could not deny Quentyn, she knew that. Joffrey had always liked to tell her that terrible things happened to wives who denied their husbands on their first night of wedding…

As Quentyn pushed into her, it was not so much painful - as she had expected - but unwelcome and uncomfortable. She kept her eyes shut, squeezing them tightly closed so she would not see. She heard the distant sound of music and laughter and could taste salt and sweat on her lips when Quentyn pressed his mouth to hers, but she thought of nothing but those she had had to leave behind.

She heard his breath hitch, his hands clutched the sheets tightly, and soon it was finished. He lingered for but a moment, breathless, before he moved away. He lay with his back to her, silent. Only then did she open her eyes. When her eyes slid to Quentyn, she saw the rigidness to his shoulders and knew he was as much asleep as she was. But she was glad of it. She didn’t want to be held or spoken to. She didn’t want to pretend that this was what either of them had wanted.

She wiped away any trace of what had just occurred with the silk coverlet and shuddered.

On the bedside table, there was a selection of fruit and a small blade. Sustenance for over-eager lovers. She stared at it for a long time, waiting until she was sure Quentyn was asleep. When she heard his breathing grow heavy and he started to snore lightly, she picked up the blade and examined it for a moment. She pricked the tip of her thumb and index finger, and wincing slightly, smeared the blood upon the silky sheets and hoped that it would be proof enough.

She slept with her hand clutched her to lips, the taste of blood and salt upon the tip of her tongue.

 

 

-     **Robb**   -

 

 

If he looked back, he wouldn’t be able to see the Crag anymore, it was little more than a dark speck in the distance. The castle was little more than rubble, but it was their rubble, and a thorn in the lion’s paw.

He filled his lungs with the crisp morning air and urged his horse on, relieved to be finally putting the place behind him. Jeyne Westerling had been the only one sad to see them go. And as kind as the girl had been during his weeks of convalescence, it hadn’t been difficult for him to say his farewells to her. His injury had kept him in one place, useless, for too long.

His mother was waiting for him in Riverrun, and it was there that Renly Baratheon was meeting him.

They rode throughout the day and all that night, reaching the Riverlands by dawn. The towers of Riverrun were just visible when the sun started to rise, and by the time mid-morning came, they were riding through the gates. Greywind reached the castle first, alerting his mother of his arrival. She was there, waiting for him, when his party crossed the drawbridge.

“Mother.” He heard himself say, a hundred emotions slipping into that one word. When she reached him and he dismounted his horse, she threw her arms around him and clung onto him tightly. When she reached up and touched his cheek, there were tears in her eyes.

“We heard you were injured.” She said, her voice thick.

“I’m fine, mother.”

His mother smiled through her tears.

“Renly Baratheon is here,” she told him. “He arrived last night.”

He nodded. “Good.”

“Why is he here, Robb?” His mother asked him, her hand slipping away from his cheek. He found himself sighing as he looked down at her, he wanted to tell her so many things. He wanted to tell her that he had thought he was going to die at the Crag, that he had wept at the thought of never seeing her, or Father, or Winterfell again. He wanted to tell her how he missed Jon, and how he wished Bran and Rickon were older, so that they could carry some of the burden. And he wanted to tell her about Myrcella, who was so far from him, and married to another. But there wasn’t enough time, so instead, he just shook his head.

“Later.” He said. “I must meet with him first, then I will tell you everything. I promise.”

 

-     **Arys**   -

 

 

Ser Arys watched as Myrcella pushed her ivory dragon forwards, across the jade and carnelian squares. With a flick of her wrist, she sent Prince Trystane’s elephants flying from the board, clearing the path for her ornate spearmen. Her cousin Rosamund gave a little gasp of surprise, while Trystane’s eyes narrowed in concentration, as if it was a move he hadn’t seen a hundred times already.

Cyvasse was an interesting game - not one he had ever actually enjoyed playing himself, however - and his princess had taken to the game at once. Myrcella played with the tenacity of a battle commander. She was ruthless when it came to winning, something which the young prince seemed to admire. It had been on their third game, that he had noticed a pattern, something which made him suspect that the Prince was letting her win - while Myrcella constantly changed where she placed her pieces at the beginning of the game, trying to figure out the best strategy to win, Trystane’s remained the same.

It only took three more moves for her to win.

She beamed down at the board when she knocked over Trystane’s king, seizing the place on the board for herself. Her handmaiden, Rosamund clapped her hands together and giggled girlishly. Myrcella smiled sweetly at the Martell boy, who leaned back in his seat and grinned at her. For the second time that day, he found himself clearing his throat, uncomfortable with the way that the boy’s gaze lingered on her.

“Are you alright, Ser Arys? You’ve been coughing an awful lot today. Are you feeling a little under the weather?” Rosamund asked, effectively stealing Myrcella’s attention away from the young prince. Her eyes widened in concern when she looked at him.

“Are you ill, Ser Arys?” asked Myrcella, her concern bringing a smile to his face.

“I’m right as rain, princess. But I thank you for your concern.” He quickly reassured her, and she smiled slightly in return. She turned back to the young prince, who grinned lazily back at her. And for just a moment, he could’ve sworn he saw a touch of colour blossom on her cheeks. Without intent, he cleared his throat again. This time the look Myrcella shot his way was more annoyance than concerned.

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright, Ser Arys? You don’t sound it.”

“I – if you’ll excuse me, I think I may just step out for a moment.”

Feigning another cough, he bowed his head respectfully to Myrcella and the Dornish Prince before he departed. He stepped out into the wide, open corridor outside of the Prince’s solar and sighed. It was his duty to protect Myrcella, from _all_ threats – even if she wasn’t aware of them. That boy – the Prince – was a threat. He just wasn’t sure how he was supposed to protect her from him, or herself.

“Oh dear,” a soft voice murmured. “Has someone died?”

He raised his head and watched, dismayed, as Princess Arianne stepped into sight. She looked just as beautiful as ever, much to his chagrin. On that morning the princess wore a gown of flowing green silks that clung to her, accentuating her curves and leaving very little to his imagination. His white cloak seemed to hang a little heavier, forcibly reminding him of his duty and his vows.

When he didn’t answer, the Dornish Princess smiled. She stepped closer - the smell of her perfume intoxicating – and leaned against the wall beside him. She touched his cloak with the very tips of her fingers, her eyes never leaving his, and then withdrew her hand as if it burned.

“You see troubled, ser.” She whispered, and he found himself watching her lips as he spoke, seemingly unable to look away. “Do we displease you? Is Dorne really so terrible that you long for that wretched place you call home? Or  perhaps… it is something else that’s bothering you.” Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “Your little princess and my brother, perhaps?”

She laughed softly, and lightly touched his arm. “I’m right, aren’t I? I usually am about these things. But I wouldn’t worry, nothing will come of it. Trystane’s a good boy, you needn’t worry. Myrcella on the other hand, well, I don’t think she’d touch him with a ten-foot pole, let alone consider taking another Dornishman to bed.”

“I would ask that you refrain from speaking ill about her, princess.” He said, his tone unintentionally curt. He glanced at Arianne, expecting her to look shocked, but instead her eyebrows lifted and she laughed.

“Oh, I see.” She murmured, her dark eyes light with amusement. “Forgive me. It didn’t realise…”

He frowned. “Realise what, princess?”

“You desire her.”

“I beg your pardon?” He spluttered, scandalised.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell. It’ll be our little secret.”

“No – no! Please, princess, you misunderstand me.” He exclaimed, waving his hands in a strange, panicked motion. His outrage seemed to only amuse her further. “I don’t _desire_ her! I think of Myrcella as my own daughter!”   

“Good.” She said, her tone teasing. “I don’t like to be jealous.” He blinked, and she grinned a predatory smile. He felt his palms start to sweat. When he opened his mouth to speak, she stepped away from the wall and danced away from him. He could only watch her as she walked away, unable to tear his eyes away from her (and her behind).

He breathed in deeply through his nose, and focused on nothing more than that until he was ready to go back to his princess.

But even then she noticed something was wrong. She always did.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Arys, poor, sweet, unreliable narrator Arys. I had so much fun writing his pov. 
> 
> And I love you all for being so worried about the appearance of Jeyne. Don't worry. Jeyne is more in this out of spite than anything else, it's been over a year and I'm still mad about what the show writers did to her character. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always, I'm so sorry it took me so long to update, I still haven't replaced my laptop so most of my writing is done on my ipad, which is a slow process (and will explain any weird mistakes in this, auto correct is such a pain sometimes). Thanks for reading! Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little warning before hand, while Robb/Myrcella is - of course - endgame there will be a fair share of Myrcella/The Martells in this fic. I won't go into details, it'll be obvious later on, I just wanted to warn you, so those of you out there (you know who you are) won't get mad at me. And yes, I know you all want Robb and Myrcella to be reunited - and they will, I swear - but please just give me time to actually construct a story, all this is mounting to something, I promise :)

 

When his kittens caught lizards, they played with them, they played with them even if the lizard was all open and its innards were hanging out and it had lost its tail, but the bad cat was different, the bad cat never played. The bad cat tore the lizard apart and never left anything behind. The bad cat, with its torn ear and nasty scarred face, sat on the ledge of the balcony and watched him. Tommen clutched Lady Whiskers close while Ser Pounce bounded forwards. Ser Pounce hissed at the bad cat and it ran away, leaping off the balcony and onto the rooftops.

With the bad cat gone, Tommen felt safe to move and he hopped off of the bed. Lady Whiskers climbed up to his shoulder and curled herself around his neck; she was like a warm, fluffy scarf. Ser Pounce followed, attacking his toes as he walked. He giggled as he opened his chamber doors, making Ser Boros – silly Ser Boros – jump. Ser Balon shot him a look which reminded him of the way Mother had looked at Father. He giggled some more at the thought, imagining Ser Balon with his mother’s long hair.

“I’m hungry.” He told the two guardsmen he could see, and the others he couldn’t see, who he knew were hanging around at the end of the corridor somewhere. “I want to go to the kitchens for some cream cakes. Mother says a king should never go to bed hungry."

“Yes, your grace.” Ser Boros said, looking pleased. The knight was his food taster now, so of course he was pleased. Mother said that soon they would have to wheel him around in a wheelbarrow, he was getting so large. Tommen smiled at the thought.

Tommen walked to the kitchens surrounded by guardsmen. There was one in front, one behind and two on each side. He remembered how he and Myrcella could go wherever they wished, as long as they brought Septa Eglantine with them. He missed that, but he missed his sister more. But he was a king now, if he asked nicely she would be able to come home and she wouldn’t have to go away again.

No matter what Uncle Tyrion said.

The servants in the kitchens smiled when they saw him. He sat on a stool while he waited for his cream cakes, his feet not quite reaching the ground yet. Ser Boros sat down beside him, while the others stood silently by the doors.

“Is Dorne so very far away?” He asked, his thoughts wandering back to his sister.

“Yes, your grace. Dorne is very far away.” Ser Balon answered.

Looking down at his feet, he saw that Ser Pounce was playing with the hem of Ser Boros’ cloak, much to the knight’s displeasure. It made Tommen giggle as he watched. It distracted him, making the sadness he felt over his sister’s absence slip away for a moment.

It wasn’t long before a large plate of cream cakes was set down in front of him. He had to wait, watching as Ser Boros deemed them ‘safe’ to eat. Tommen narrowed his eyes. The knight kept eating the best ones. As the knight reached for another cream cake, Tommen reached out and slapped his hand away. Mother would have scolded him for being rude, but he knew it would have made Myrcella laugh.

Ser Boros retracted his hand without a word and Tommen happily helped himself to the plate of cream cakes. He was secretly pleased that Ser Pounce was now scratching at Ser Boros’ stupid white cloak.

When he could eat no more, when he was certain he’d be sick if he ate one more bite, he wrapped up what was left in a napkin and tucked it into his pocket. He thanked the servants and left the kitchens, and the guards fell back into position. They walked back to his chambers in silence, no one bothering to make jokes or talk about anything interesting. Not for the first time, he wished his Uncle Jaime was with him. His uncle was the best knight there was. Ser Barristan was the only knight left that he liked, but the knight was rarely on night duty.

They had almost reached Tommen’s chambers when there was a noise at the end of the corridor. The sudden noise made him jump. The knights around him were quicker to react, they drew their swords and closed rank behind him, squishing him into Ser Boros’ side.

Peering around Ser Balon, he could see torches and people making their way towards him. He squinted, trying to see who it was. For a moment he feared that it might be his mother, come to scold him for being rude to Ser Boros. But as the people came closer, their voices growing louder, it reminded him of when Myrcella had told him they were going to see the dragon skulls. _Don’t let go of my hand_ , she’d said, _don’t let go of my hand for a single second_. Thinking about it made him sad, they hadn’t been going to see the dragon skulls after all. He’d ruined whatever it was they had been going to see, and it had made Myrcella sad. And what made her sad, made him sad…

“Come, your grace. We must return to your chambers.” One of the knights said, his words sounding too much like an order. Tommen ignored him, his curiosity piqued. All the knights were acting funny, all nervous and twitchy.

“Oh look, it’s Ser Barristan!” He called out, spotting the knight through the darkness. There was a whole group of them, both Kingsguard and City Watch. They were surrounding something – or someone - in the same way Ser Boros and the others were surrounding him. He wondered if they were all getting cream cakes too.

“Get the king out of here!” Ser Barristan yelled back.

The other knights scrambled into action then, trying to shepherd him back to his chambers. He ducked under Ser Balon’s arm, chasing after Lady Whiskers as she streaked across the corridor in Ser Barristan’s direction. In one swift movement, Ser Barristan reached down and scooped up Lady Whiskers in one hand as she tried to run between his legs.

It was only when the knight bent down to catch Lady Whiskers that Tommen saw who it was behind him.

“Lord Stark!” He exclaimed in surprise. He didn’t know the man – and Joffrey had said such horrid things about him – but he was sure that Myrcella would have been happy to see him, so he was happy to see him. “Hello!”

“Hello, your grace.” Lord Stark responded. His smile was small, but friendly enough.

“We must be getting back to your chambers, your gra-”

Tommen scowled at Ser Boros. “In a moment, ser. I’d like to speak to Lord Stark first.”

Cocking his head to the side, he observed the man stood before him. Myrcella said he was a good man, a kind man; she’d asked him not to believe the things others said about him. He first remembered seeing Lord Stark at Winterfell, introduced to him as his father’s closest friend. A brother in everything but blood. And then he’d been his father’s Hand. And after their father had died, Joffrey had told him that he was a traitor. Tommen hadn’t believe him, not until Mother said so.

Tommen supposed it was another one of those things he wouldn’t understand until he was older.

“Where are you going?” He asked as Ser Barristan handed Lady Whiskers back to him.

“Home, your grace.”

“Winterfell?” He asked, and when Lord Stark nodded, he beamed at him. “Myrcella will be so jealous. All she ever wants to do is go back to Winterfell.” Try as he might, he still didn’t understand why his sister had loved about the place so much, the snow had been pretty but it had always been so cold. He’d had to go to bed wearing two pairs of socks.

“She’s in Dorne now,” he continued. “She didn’t want to go. I didn’t want her to go either. But Mother says that she will be able to come back soon, once she’s married to the prince…”

“Your grace, we really must -” One of the Kingsguard started to say, but Tommen quickly interrupted him.

“Are you going home to your family?” He asked, and Lord Stark nodded solemnly, looking sad. Tommen frowned, and - feeling the need to do something nice - he reached into his pocket and pulled out what was left of his cream cakes. “Take these. For your journey.”

It was only when he held out his hand that he noticed that Lord Stark’s wrists were shackled. If he was going home, why was he wearing chains? Myrcella hadn’t worn chains when she went away, so why should he? Not knowing what else to do, he handed the little bundle of cream cakes to Ser Barristan. “These are for Lord Stark,” he instructed the knight. “But you can have one. If you like.”

A king was supposed to be wise. That was what Grandfather said. But, looking at the shackles on the wrists of his father’s friend, he didn’t feel very wise. It would be easier to go back to his rooms and forget every having seen Lord Stark – it was what his mother would want him to do – but he was a king now. It wasn’t what Myrcrella would do. And his sister always did what was right.

“Why are they letting you go home, Lord Stark? Joff said you are our enemy.” Joffrey had enjoyed the idea of war. He’d liked battle, until he had a taste of it – that was what his uncle said, anyway.

“I am not your enemy, your grace.” Lord Stark said. “And neither is my son. That I promise.”

“Alright.” He smiled. “Farewell, Lord Stark.”

Lord Stark smiled solemnly. “Farewell, your grace.”

 

-     **Robb** -

 

 

The Kingslayer prowled like the caged lion he was.

He was all prepped and primed to go – he’d even had a bath, and someone had given him a comb to brush that pretty hair of his. Robb watched him from afar, Greywind lying at his feet. The moment was finally here, and though he was sure he was supposed to feel as if something was slipping away from him, all he felt was relief. It was over. He was going home.

His father was being exchanged for the Kingslayer, and for peace. His brief alliance with Renly Baratheon was finished, though a large portion of his bannermen intended to join the man if he ever marched on King’s Landing. He wasn’t sure whether the fight was truly over – Myrcella was still in Dorne, Arya was still lost – but for now, he could enjoy the moment and the knowledge that he would be home soon. He breathed a little easier knowing that Winterfell, his mother, his brothers and his sister would soon be in his sights.

One thought though had been plaguing him for a while. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite get it out of his head. It kept nagging at him, the mad idea sounding more and more reasonable the more he thought about it. He’d been silently stewing over the thought for several days, arguing back and forth with himself, and now that the time had come to let their prisoner go, he knew it was now or never.

Pushing himself to his feet, he stalked across the muddy ground towards the Kingslayer’s cell. Greywind followed close behind, growling when the Kingslayer looked their way. He was pleased to see the nervous look on the man’s face.

“Come to say goodbye, Stark?” The Kingslayer drawled, leaning against the bars of the cell. “I can’t say I’ll miss these little talks of ours.” He cut his eyes at Greywind and scowled. “Or that beast of yours.”

“I didn’t come to exchange empty words with you, Kingslayer.” He told him, struggling to hold his gaze. Those eyes… they were so like Myrcella’s. It was so easy to forget who this man was, and what he really was to her. “I would ask something of you.”

“Oh? And what’s that, boy?”

“Go to Dorne, and save your daughter from the nest of vipers your family sent her to.”

 

-     **Myrcella** -

 

 

It was impossible to be unhappy in a place as beautiful as the Water Gardens. That was - perhaps - why her husband and his family had decided to bring her there. Some whispered about her, thinking she couldn’t hear them. Everyone seemed determined to make her happy here, if only to satisfy themselves.

That afternoon, to escape the heat, most had taken to resting under the shade of tall blood orange trees. It was quiet, peaceful. There were children of all ranks playing together in the shallower pools, laughing as they splashed water at each other.

Predictably, Quentyn was nowhere to be found. She suspected he was meeting with his father, who she was to meet for the first time that evening. She didn’t mourn his absence. Even after three months had passed since her arrival, she could count on her hand the amount of times they had spoken. It was only Arianne and Trystane that she had warmed to – albeit reluctantly. Though she still mistrusted her, Arianne was the closest thing she had to a friend in Dorne. She had her handmaiden, Rosamund to keep her company, but she didn’t much miss her company when she was without it. The girl was well-mannered, always unfailingly polite, but their conversations never strayed far from the weather.

Keeping to herself, Myrcella wandered aimlessly, taking in the beauty of the Water Gardens. From what she had been told by her septa, Prince Maron Martell had had it built for his bride, Daenerys. Once she had hoped that someone might do the same for her. Once she had heard tales of the duels fought for Shiera Seastar’s hand and wished for nothing more than to be in her place, to possess a beauty and a spirit worth waging wars over. And now… now she wasn’t sure what she wanted.

Noticing movement out of the corner of her eye, Myrcella lifted her head. A woman was stood in the shadows of an overhanging terrace, watching her silently. With thick dark hair and dark eyes which seemed near black, the woman looked like something out of Old Nan’s stories. There were silvery scars running down her cheek like claw marks. And when their eyes met, she froze, a shiver running through her. The woman seemed to notice, and with a knowing smile that sent chills through her, she gestured for her to follow as she moved beneath the shade of blood orange trees. Myrcella didn’t know what to say, so she simply followed as the woman silently. They walked side by side for several minutes, the woman wordlessly guiding them from the noise of the Water Gardens and in effect, out of earshot.

Eventually, the woman spoke.

“You are the princes’ wife, yes? I have heard much of you.”

“Only pleasant things, I hope.” She murmured in response as she cast her gaze upwards, taking in the pretty colours of the blood orange trees. The woman said nothing in response, she only made a strange, clucking noise which Myrcella found rather odd, but chose not to comment on. “Is… is there some reason you wished to speak with me? It’s merely that I do not believe we have met before –”

“In place of such beauty, your face shows much sadness. I wondered why.”

“Oh.” It was all she could think to say.

“You dislike your prince?”

“Prince Quentyn is most gallant and kind,” she murmured. “He is all I would wish for in a husband and in a prince.”

“You fear someone, though. Are you afraid of the little birds listening in the trees? You speak one thing, but feel another. I understand this. But you do not need to fear.” The woman touched her arm; her thick fingers holding her wrist as if observe the pulse. Myrcella knew better than to snatch her hand away. The woman smiled, “I am merely… curious.”

Curiosity. It was an interesting thing. It covered all manner of sins.

“There is nothing for me to say,” she answered as evenly as she could. “My husband is good and true and kind. My heart belongs to him and no one has ever loved another as I love him.” Her words were true, but only Myrcella knew that it was not Quentyn she spoke of. Uncomfortable under the woman’s gaze, she gently pulled her arm from the woman’s grasp. “I ought to go back. He will be wondering where I am.”

Lies. All lies. Trystane would wonder, perhaps, but not Quentyn.

“My lady Ellaria wished for me to speak with you.” The woman whispered, speaking as though she had never spoken. They were far from the noise and cheer of the pools now, tucked away in quiet corner beneath red and orange bougainvillea vines. The woman smiled at her – a frightening toothless smile - and reached for her hand again. “There is little I do not see. Blood does not lie.”

“Blood?” The more she looked at the woman, the more the unimaginable seemed possible. This woman… she was what she and her friends had once whispered about it, when it was rumoured that a witch lived in Flea Bottom. Some said that the witch could see a man’s whole life, in just a single drop of blood.

But such things were not possible. Magic like that didn’t exist outside of stories.

“Come,” the woman said. “Give me your hand.”

Curiosity was a dangerous thing.

Myrcella’s hand shook as she held it out, letting it fall into the trap of the woman’s thick fingers. The woman turned her hand over and the pads of her fingers tickled her palm. When the woman produced a blade, she thought that she would be the one to do it, but instead the strange woman pressed the knife into her outstretched hand.

Myrcella didn’t have to be told.

She took the dagger the woman offered her and stared down at it, afraid of what she was about to do. _What’s the harm in a drop of blood?_ She asked herself. _It’s nothing._ But it wasn’t the blood she was afraid of, but what the woman might see. If there was truth in the woman’s words – if she was what she seemed – what future might she see?

Curiosity was dangerous, one day she would learn that.

Forcing away her fears, she ran the blade across her thumb. The woman seized her hand and dragged her thumb into her mouth. When the woman had had her fill, she opened her mouth and Myrcella withdrew her hand. A trickle of blood ran down the woman’s chin and she made no movement to wipe it away, only watched Myrcella with those dark, troubling eyes.

“Well?” She asked, her voice wavering. “What did you see?”

The woman licked the drop of blood which had escaped her mouth.

“You will not like my answers.” The woman said, lowering her gaze to Myrcella’s hand. Her blood was dripping on the ground. She clutched her hand to her chest, her thumb throbbing. “But I will answer what you ask.”

“Will the Prince and I ever have children?” She asked, asking what troubled her the most. Quentyn did not frequent her bed often, but once was all it took. If nothing came of it, they would call her barren and make her drink special teas. It was what she feared the most – that they would try to force a child upon her.

“Never. You will bear the king’s children and no others.”

She frowned. “What king? My brother is the king!”

“There are five kings, and all shall fall before the queen.”

It made no sense to her. Stannis was gone, only her Uncle Renly was left.

“And how many children will I have?”

“You will have six children. You will lose the first, and the last shall die.”

“I was with child once - with a son, but he died.”

The woman smiled. “Then your next child shall live.”

“What will happen to my brother? Will he live?”

“Aye, he will live. But first, he must die.” Myrcella opened her mouth to ask another question, but the woman wasn’t finished. The woman’s eyes fell closed, and she twitched violently. “Fear the rising of a dark star, and the fall of snow. When a lone wolf is taken down by spiders and vipers, fire and death will come. The sea is coming… aye, and a mighty storm. No lions will be left once winter comes.”

When the woman’s eyes opened slowly, and she blinked as if waking from a trance, Myrcella stumbled away from her in horror. The woman’s eyes saw too much. Myrcella, fearing whatever truth lay in her riddles, turned and fled.

 

-     **Robb** –

 

 

Though half his army wished to be by his side, Robb waited on the Kingsroad with Theon to his left, Smalljon Umber to his right and only a dozen men behind him. The Kingslayer took the lead, bound, with Greywind at his side. Robb smirked, it gave him an unspeakable pleasure to see the man squirm.

“There, my lord.” Smalljon called when the first of the king’s riders rode into sight. “So the Lannisters keep their debts, after all.”

The Kingslayer smirked at that.

When the wheelhouse rounded the bend in the road and rolled slowly into sight, a smile broke across his face. _Father._ It was all coming to a close now. Father would know what to do. Father would take the burden from him, and he would find a way to bring Myrcella home. He felt like a great weight had been taken off of his shoulders, with his father returned, he would take up his place as Lord of Winterfell – and it would be as it was meant to be. His only wish was that his mother could be there with him. She would’ve liked to be the first to embrace him. He had hoped that she might be the one to tell his father about Arya…

A dozen men surrounded the wheelhouse, with the knight he could only guess was Ser Barristan Selmy at the head. He took it as a good omen. Myrcella had always spoken kindly of the knight, considered him honourable, as had his father.

He straightened, trying to keep himself composed as the wheelhouse bumped along the road at an insufferably slow pace. He had waited this long, he told himself, he could stand to wait just a few more minutes. But Greywind, who rose suddenly to his feet, began to growl. He glanced at Theon nervously, seeking some sort of reassurance, but his friend merely shrugged.

“Enough, Greywind.” He demanded, but his voice lacked strength.

A feeling of dread washed over him when the direwolf bounded forwards, snarling at the approaching wheelhouse. He moved to follow, but Smalljon’s hand on his shoulder held him back. In a uniformed fashion, the six knights drew to a halt and dismounted their horses. Robb glanced at Smalljon and nodded once. The man stepped up and hauled the Kingslayer to his feet, keeping a firm hold of him as the three of them approached the wheelhouse.

“We’ve done everything you asked, Lord Stark. So if you will, hand over Ser Jaime and let us be done here.” One of the white cloaked knights called out to him, looking a little more ill at ease than the others. Several of the knights murmured in agreement.

“We’re here, as agreed.” He announced. “Return my father to me and you can have the Kingslayer.”

“Of course.” Another of the knights answered.

Two knights turned and marched to one side of the wheelhouse. He heard the clink of keys and someone said something – something too low for him to hear. Greywind circled the wheelhouse, growling and barking like a rabid dog. The two knights exchanged a wary glance and then, slowly, moved to help his father out of the wheelhouse.

With the help of the knights, his father climbed out of the wheelhouse with his wrists and his ankles shackled. He was so thin; his face was gaunt, and his once neatly trimmed beard was unkempt and streaked with grey. And for one awful moment, he almost didn’t recognise him – but then his father lifted his head and smiled faintly at him.

“Father.” He breathed.

He began to move, slowly crossing the space between them. Smalljon followed closely, dragging the Kingslayer close behind him. The rest of his men hung back, their hands never straying far from their swords.

“His shackles.” Robb snapped. “Remove them.”

It was only when Ser Barristan nodded that the knights complied. As the knights set to work removing his father’s shackles, he glanced down at the Kingslayer’s bound wrists and Smalljon removed the rope from them without needing to be asked.

“Think on what I asked of you, Lannister.” Robb muttered and the Kingslayer met his gaze for but an instant before Smalljon pushed him towards the waiting knights. As he turned away, he thought he saw the man nod.

His father took a step towards him, and then stumbled.

His father started to cough – to choke violently on something – and the colour drained from his face. Robb hurried forwards to catch him and his father landed heavily against him, his weight forcing him to his knees.

His father was clutching at his throat, his eyes wide and searching.

“Father!” He cried. “I’m here, father. I’m here!”

His father’s eyes were filled with tears when they met his. The fear seemed to leave him then, and as he gasped for air, he smiled weakly. The hands which had been clutching his throat moved to Robb’s face, his fingertips brushing across his cheeks.

“Robb…” his father rasped. “Tell your mother -”

“Father?”

His father’s head lolled back, his eyes unseeing.

In his grief, he did not register the look of shock on the faces of both Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer, nor did he see the look of utter surprise on every other face except one. The man, who he would later learn was of the City Watch, was the first to draw his sword. In the confusion, he forced the Kingslayer onto a horse and allowed for him to flee.

As his men rallied around him, swords drawn, he could only clutch his father close. _Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?_ He had once asked his father. _That is the only time a man can be brave,_ his father had told him. But he didn’t feel very brave.

 

 

-     **Arianne** -

 

 

Arianne watched her knight go with a fond smile.

Her tears had worked wonders, as they so often did.

_Ask, and it is yours._

Her sweet knight. He went back to the palace, promising her the world. She could almost imagine it – her birthright and Myrcella’s crown, all wrapped up in a pretty bundle. Her father would not deny her what was hers, not with a queen by her side. No, he would never dare.

Her smile slipped from her lips as her thoughts lingered on her father.

He must think himself so clever, and her so disposable. But people were not like the pieces on a cyvasse board, they were no so easily controlled. And she would rather die than see what was hers robbed from her.

It would give her great pleasure to see her father’s face when his desires were dashed, when he realized that Quentyn would never steal what was rightfully hers. Quentyn could have the Seven Kingdoms, but she would have Dorne.

And Myrcella – dear, sweet Myrcella, she would be Queen.

  

-     **Myrcella** –

 

 

She woke long before the sun came up, in an empty bed and with a locked door.

She lay awake for a long time, staring up at the little cracks in the ceiling. She was troubled. What had happened seemed like something from the stories she and her friends had once whispered to each other in the dark. But this was no tale or song. The woman’s words haunted her, hounding her even in her dreams. She could not escape from them. With every throb of her aching thumb, she thought of the woman’s words and the eyes which had seen so much.

She felt so foolish, she cursed her damned curiosity.

She squeezed her eyes closed and forced her thoughts elsewhere.

She thought about her son, something she had never really let herself do. She only ever thought about how much it had hurt to lose him. But – as she often forgot - before Bran’s fall, she and Robb had been so happy. Terrified, but happy nonetheless. In the quiet moments in the morning they had whispered their hopes for their son. _As strong and as wise as Father,_ Robb had asked. _And with your smile._ She hadn’t asked much of the Gods, only prayed that their child be blessed with long life and happiness.

A plea the Gods had not answered.

She wondered how different it would all be, had her son lived.

It didn’t hurt as much anymore; once she had thought she might die of the pain, every thought of her child – alone, and in the ground – had been torture. But maybe – just maybe – it was meant to be. The woman’s words, as frightening as they had been, gave her hope. And for the first time since she had arrived, Myrcella had hope that one day she would find her way back to Robb.

 

 

-     **Arys** –

 

 

The day was too beautiful for the news he had to share. The letter felt heavy in his pocket, but it was no match for the heaviness he felt in his heart. He approached his princess, a bearer of cruel tidings.

She looked so happy, he cursed the Gods for making him be the one to rob that from her. She and Prince Trystane were in the gardens together, playing cyvasse beneath the shade of lemon trees. His princess was winning, as always.

“Princess…” he called, unsure where to begin.

Myrcella looked up at the sound of his voice and smiled warmly. Wringing his hands together nervously, he found himself unable to meet her eye. “I have a letter for you, princess. It arrived this morning.” He reached for the letter slowly and fished it from his pocket with great reluctance. In that moment, he knew he’d rather fall on his own sword than give that letter to her.

He closed his fist around the letter, crumbling it. The smile faded from his princess’ face.

“Ser Arys?” She murmured quietly, her expression uncertain. “What is it? Who is the letter from?”

Prince Trystane, with a look of genuine concern, reached out to her over the cyvasse board and touched her hand. Arys watched as she smiled guardedly at the prince before she slid her hand from his grasp.

He knew every word of the wretched letter. He was certain that if she ripped open his chest, she would find them etched on his heart. His whispered promises to Princess Arianne had rung true. Never had he loved anyone more than he loved her and Princess Myrcella. To cause her pain – which the letter surely would – would cause him to feel that sevenfold.

He forced a smile onto his lips.

“Forgive me, princess. I have brought you the wrong letter.” He answered through clenched teeth.

“Oh,” his princess murmured. Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspiciously, but she did not press it. She glanced back at Prince Trystane and the boy grinned up at her, his concern forgotten. “I suppose you ought to get back to your duties then.”

He bowed his head and then turned, walking away. Myrcella returned to her game with the prince, and he heard their voices echoing around the gardens as he stalked back to the palace. It was only when he was alone, tucked away in a corner far from the noise of the Water Gardens, that he uncurled his fist and read the letter one last time.

_Dearest Myrcella,_

_I don’t know if this letter will reach you, or if they will even let you read it, all I can do is hope that the Gods are merciful and this ends up in your hands and no one else’s._

_I need you, my love. I need you here, with me._

_We thought we were at peace. I thought… It was supposed to be over. In exchange for your Uncle Jaime and peace, they were going to bring my father back to me. We were supposed to go home._

_They killed my father, Myrcella. They took him from me._

_I don’t know what will happen, but we can never have peace. Not now. I know in my heart what I must do - your family killed my father and they will die for it. And it is only thoughts of you that hold me back. I love you, Myrcella, I will always love you, but I cannot let the thought of hurting you stop me from doing what is right._

_Forgive me,_

_Robb_

-     **Robb** –

 

That night the woods came alive with the howling of wolves.

“My lords,” Greatjon had shouted, his voice booming. “Here I is what I say to these two kings!” He had spat. “Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Tommen neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong. The Others take the Lannisters too, I’ve had a bellyful of them.”

Greatjon had reached back over his shoulder then and drew his sword.

“Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead!” And then he had pointed at Robb with the blade. He had felt his blood run cold as all eyes turn upon him. “There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, my lords.”

And he had knelt, and laid his sword at Robb’s feet.

“The King in the North!” They had yelled. “ _The King in the North!”_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first paragraph of this chapter was inspired by/taken from the book I'm currently reading, I’m Not Scared by Niccolo Ammaniti. It just felt so Tommen-like that I had to include it. 
> 
> Since my laptop broke I've had to do all my writing on my ipad and auto correct can be a real pest, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'm so sorry for the long wait!


	19. Chapter 19

 

**\- Rosamund**  –

 

_I am a Prince. And tonight you are my princess._

Rosamund giggled, still feeling the heat of his gaze on her as she pawed through Myrcella’s dresses. They were all so fine, like nothing someone like her had ever worn, and she would not have dared touch them if not for the words of her sweet prince.

She chose a deep crimson gown, similar to the ones Queen Cersei wore. It was a little small on her, her frame was shorter and more rounded than the Princess’.  _I have hips and she doesn’t,_ she thought wickedly as she ran her hands down the front of her dress _._ The bodice dug in painfully, forcing her breasts up, and the skirts were too long for her short legs. But she didn’t care.

She wore the Princess’ jewels and rubbed some of her perfume on the back of her neck. She placed one of her crowns on the top of her head and did her best to make her straight hair look a little like hers. Her Prince would like that.

_Meet me in the gardens. I’ll be waiting._

As she slipped out of the Princess’ chambers – never wondering for a single second why, at midnight, she wasn’t there – and hurried in the direction of the gardens, she giggled. Trystane would make her his wife someday and she would be a princess too, she would be Myrcella’s sister. She wouldn’t have to dress her anymore, she wouldn’t have to clean up after her, no, lowly little Rosamund would have someone doing that  _for_ her. And there was nothing Myrcella would have that she wouldn’t.

 

 

**\- Myrcella**  –

 

 

The gardens were so beautiful at night. Aside from the Water Gardens, there was no place in Dorne she loved more than the palace gardens in the evening time. The cloudless sky sparkled with thousands of stars and the full moon sat over the sea, lighting the water with its pale orange glow. She could smell the lemon trees and thought she could hear music coming from the inns and bazaars in the shadow city below.

Here in the gardens, she came as close to happy as she ever did in Dorne. In these few, precious moments she almost felt at home. Beneath the blood orange trees and looking out over the ocean, Winterfell was nothing more than a distant memory.

When she reached the lookout point, she leaned against the stone wall and smiled as she looked down at the ocean. She could see the pale outline of ships’ sails in the harbour, reminding her of the ship her mother had promised to send her for her Name Day. She savoured the moment, knowing it would not last. Eventually Ser Arys would return from his errand – whatever it may be – and bring her back to where she was meant to be.

Turning away from the sea, Myrcella sighed. The gardens felt less peaceful now. That was the problem with letting her thoughts wander, they always ended up somewhere she didn’t want them to be. Quentyn loved her about as much as she loved him, but at least he was kind. And Arianne, sweet Arianne, she loved like a sister. And Trystane… she couldn’t let herself think of Trystane. She wished sometimes that she had been married to Trystane instead. He made the bars of her cage seem pretty while his brother only ever made her ever more aware of them.

She returned to her chambers, troubled.

But as she rounded the fountain in the heart of the gardens and the doors to her chambers came into sight, any lingering thoughts of self-pity disappeared.  _Oh my,_ she thought as she saw two people locked in an embrace, pressed up against the wall. They weren’t so close to her chambers that they would necessarily see her if she crept past them, but there was a good chance that they would. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to take that chance, the thought alone made her blush.

And as she stood there, uncertain what to do, she noticed something she hadn’t before.

_Is that my dress?_

Myrcella grimaced as she turned away. She really wished she hadn’t noticed that.

But as she started to move away, doing her best to move as quietly as possible, she thought she heard her name.

“Myrcella,” the man sighed and she froze.

She looked back, fearful that she had been spotted, but saw instead that his back was to her still and she looked into the startled eyes of his lover. She backed up a step, stumbling over her skirts.

Rosamund stared at her for a moment before pushing her lover away.

“Why her? Why is it always  _her?”_  Rosamund’s lover didn’t seem to hear her, nor did he notice the tears streaming down her cheeks. He looked away from her slowly, fastening up his breeches as he turned to face Myrcella.

Seeing him hurt more than she expected it to. It was like a sudden blow, swift and unexpected.

“Forgive me,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She excused herself quickly, unable to look at either of them. She ignored Trystane’s shouts for her to come back and pretended not to hear Rosamund’s sobs as she hurried into her chambers and slammed the door shut behind her. She locked the door and fell against it, breathing heavily. There was no reason for her to care, Robb was the only man she would ever love –

Except, in all the months she had been in Dorne, Trystane was the only one who she didn’t have to pretend with. He was her one friend. And yet, thinking of him with Rosamund hurt, like he had somehow betrayed her. She didn’t understand it – and she didn’t want to either.

“There you are,” a soft voice called from within her chambers. “I’ve been waiting.”

She wasn’t sure what startled her more, seeing Arianne laid out on her bed or Ser Arys suddenly walking in through the other door. The knight wasn’t wearing his cloak, she realised. Arianne was. She had it wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl.

“Are you alright? I couldn’t find you.” Ser Arys said as he approached, lighting running his hands down the sides of her arms. “Princess Arianne didn’t mean to startle you, she merely wished to speak to you in private.”

“Why?” She asked, narrowing her eyes.

She watched, bewildered, as Arianne slid off of her bed and stalked towards her with a small, mischievous smile playing upon her lips. Ser Arys’ hands still lingered on her arms, his stance growing protective as Arianne drew near. Arianne placed one of her hands over his and bent slightly, pressing her lips to Myrcella’s shoulder.

“You have suffered so much, sweet princess. Say the word and I will take you from this place.” Arianne breathed, her smile turning sweet and understanding. If Myrcella hadn’t been so desperate to hear those words, she might’ve thought twice before replying.

“Where?” She asked, relaxing into Ser Arys’ arms when he pulled her against his chest. The knight was warm and comforting and Arianne touched her cheek, gently running the backs of her fingers along her cheekbone.

“Anywhere you like.”

She hesitated, torn between her duty and her heart.

“I will go fetch the horses,” Arianne whispered. “Ser Arys will pack your things.”

Arianne didn’t wait for an answer. She merely smiled at her before she departed, and once Arianne had unlocked the door and disappeared into the night, Ser Arys kissed the crown of her head and turned away. He hurried around the room, gathering her things and carefully packing them. She sat on the edge of her bed, watching him and smiling to herself. If Arianne and Ser Arys got her as far as the Westernlands, she could find a way to smuggle a letter to Robb. She closed her eyes, happy knowing that soon she would be back in Robb’s arms.

_I’ll find a way,_ she promised herself.  _I’ll find a way back to him._

  

**\- Trystane -**

 

 

Trystane paced outside of Myrcella’s chambers, angrily scrubbing his knuckles across his lips as he listened to the voices within. It would be so easy just to burst through those doors and tell the truth, but that wasn’t part of the plan – was it? No, the plan was simple and Arianne would have his neck if he ruined it for her.

But all the same, it did not stop him from wishing he could.

Then again, loving her had never been part of the plan.

His task had been easy, it had merely been to make the Princess happy in Dorne and make up for what his brother lacked. He had done everything perfectly, he had been patient and kind and done all his sister had asked of him, and yet he was the one who had stumbled and fallen out of his depth.

He loved his brother, but never had he hated him more than when he saw him with her. He was married to the most beautiful girl in the Seven Kingdoms, yet he was more interested in his books and the life he had left behind in Yronwood. He wondered if ever had there been a moment when he looked at Myrcella and felt a fraction of what Trystane did every time he saw her.

The door opened abruptly and he halted, his pacing interrupted. His sister did not seem surprised to see him there, she simply smirked and grabbed him by the arm, towing him after her.

“Stop sulking, Trystane. It doesn’t become you.” She muttered as they made their way through the palace, creeping in the shadows like thieves. “When Myrcella is made Queen you can tell her the truth. I’m sure she will forgive you.”

“And if she does not?”

“You’d be surprised how thin the line between love and hate is, brother. Just as Rosamund.”

“I should just tell her the truth now, and stop this stupid plan of yours.” He muttered and Arianne stopped walking, her fingers curling around his arm so that her nails dig into his skin. “All this just so that Father does not forsake you. How many people have to suffer before -”

“ _Don’t.”_ She hissed. “Don’t act as though you aren’t saying this just because you think you love her. I told you to make the girl feel at home here _,_ I didn’t tell you to seduce her. You knew all along that this was going to happen.”

He almost opened his mouth to tell her the truth - that it was not love that bound Myrcella to him, but friendship, but he held his tongue. His sister had been amused by the thought of him being Myrcella’s mistress, and he had let her believed that – he had liked the idea too much to tell her otherwise. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, but Myrcella’s heart was still set on that Northern boy. How his sister still hadn’t realised it, he would never know. Even that fool Arys knew.

“It’s not going to work, Arianne.” He called after his sister as she stalked away from him. His sister did not turn, but he knew she heard him. He watched her, eyes trained on her back as she hurried down the corridor to the stables. He had time, either to say goodbye or to tell the truth. He would decide on the way, he decided as he turned to march back to Myrcella’s chambers.

The walk back didn’t take long and when he reached her door, he leaned against it. He could hear her talking to Ser Arys and hearing her voice sealed his decision. He knocked on the door and took a step away from it, running the back of his hand across his lips one final time.

“That’ll be Princess Arianne.” He heard Ser Arys say.

He heard the sound of footsteps and a moment later the door opened.

“You’re not Arianne.” Myrcella said, her eyes narrowing in mistrust.

Struggling to find the right words, he did the first thing which came to mind. He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the doorway, throwing her against the wall as carefully as he could. Myrcella’s eyes were wide in surprise but she didn’t look afraid. She looked positively murderous, but he chose to ignore that.

“It wasn’t real.” He breathed, painfully aware of how close they were. “With Rosamund. It was just a trick to get you to agree to running away with my sister. It’s what she wants. She wants you to be mad at me – to hate me – so you’ll want to leave.”

“You think that’s why I want to leave?” She asked him, her eyebrows drawing together slightly. His eyes dropped to her lips, watching them as she spoke. It was too hard looking her in the eyes, seeing all the anger there. “Do you actually think I care about you and Rosamund?”

“I know you do.” He said. It would be so easy to kiss her, he’d barely have to move –

Myrcella shoved him hard, sending him stumbling away from her.

“You think I’m your friend? You think I care about you? You don’t get it.” There was something dark and unfamiliar in her eyes when she looked at him, an emotion he didn’t recognise. Her lips curved slightly, and suddenly her eyes were mocking him, pitying him, hating him.

“But I love you.” He said, his voice painfully small.

“And I love Robb, Trystane.” She murmured, her expression softening. “I don’t know what you or your sister want from me, but I -” She stopped, looking back at the door when it opened again. Ser Arys stepped through, his gaze turning dark when it settled on him. The knight had always seen through him well, it was a shame the same could not be said for his sister.

Myrcella took a step towards him and lightly pressed her lips to his cheek.

“Goodbye, Trystane.”

He touched where her lips had been and smiled faintly.

“Goodbye, Your Grace.”

 

-  **Myrcella**  -

 

 

It was nothing, Myrcella told herself as she walked away from Trystane. A slip of the tongue. A joke she had failed to understand. But it nagged at her. She returned to her chambers and sat back down on the edge of her bed whilst Ser Arys packed the rest of her things.

“Where does Arianne think we’re going?” She asked the knight and he paused.

“Where ever you wish, my princess.” He answered after a pause.

His hesitation made her frown.

“Tell me the truth, Ser Arys.”

The knight tore his eyes away from his task and met her gaze. He could not lie, not when he was looking at her.

“Your duty is to me,” she pressed. “Not Arianne.”

“Forgive me,” the knight sighed. “I was wrong not to tell you at once. I let myself forget my duty.” The knight touched his shoulder, feeling for the white cloak that was not there. “Princess Arianne wishes to take you to Shandystone, a fort to the north of here, where several of her closest friends are waiting to meet with you.”

“Why? What do they want?”

“From what I know, they… they wish to take you west, to Hellholt, where Arianne will crown you Queen.” Ser Arys said and for a moment, she could only stare at him, thinking it was a joke. “Forgive me, Princess Arianne asked me not to tell you until -”

“I should have known. I shouldn’t have been so stupid, to think that…” She scowled at the knight when his expression turned guilty and resigned herself to pulling at a loose thread on her skirts. “Why would I usurp my own brother?”

“You are older.” Arianne said, appearing suddenly at the doorway. “Wiser. You would make a fair and just Queen. Your brother is too young to sit upon the Iron Throne, he is controlled by his advisors - who will bring nothing but war and ruin upon this land. And if being Queen is what you desire, I will see it so. The horses are ready and our company awaits us,  _Your Grace._ ”

“No one will support me, not while my brother is still alive.” She said, frowning.

Arianne paused, and there was something troubling about her expression. It was as if she was considering it. It made her think, inexplicably, of the old woman and her riddles.  _Aye, he will live_ , the woman had said.  _But first, he must die._ Myrcella stared down at the loose thread she had been playing with.  _No lions will be left once winter comes._ The old woman’s words planted a seed of an idea in her mind. There was nothing she would not do to keep Tommen safe, even if it meant the unthinkable.

She looked up and found Arianne and Ser Arys watching her, waiting for her answer.

“We’re going to go to King’s Landing.” She told them, lifting her chin as she spoke. Arianne frowned, but remained silent, letting her continue. “And once the whole kingdom thinks my brother dead, then you can crown me Queen.”

 

-  **Robb**  -

 

 

Robb stared down at his newly forged crown, troubled.  _I did not want this,_ he thought to himself,  _any of this._

All he had wanted was his father, his sisters and his wife to be returned to him, and instead, he had lost them all. He had Sansa, it was true, but what of the rest? Arya was lost, his father was dead and Myrcella… They would have him believe it was what she wanted, that no princess of the Seven Kingdoms could want to keep a traitor in her bed, but he knew the truth. All he saw when he closed his eyes was her, forcing him to imagine all of the terrible things they might do to her. She had had such faith in her family and what had they repaid her faith with? That thought, among many more of the same kind, kept him awake at night.

The Kingslayer was gone, his Kingsguard with him.

They were at war again, he stood on one side and Myrcella on the other.

The letter had been foolish, he knew there was little chance of it ever reaching her, but hadn’t been able to stop himself. A part of him had needed to ask for her permission, so that one day he might have her forgiveness for what he was about to do. The Queen, the Kingslayer, the Boy King and the great Lion of Lannister were his enemies, he went to war seeking justice for what they had done – and yet, always lingering in the back of his mind was the knowledge that his enemies were loved by the person he loved most.

“My king, what are your orders?” One of his commanders asked him, interrupting his thoughts. His attention returned to the map in front of him, his gaze lingering on Dorne for a moment before he looked to where the commander was pointing. “Do we continue west and take Casterly Rock, or do we march south on King’s Landing?”

He considered it for a moment.

He thought about how the Lannisters had tricked them with promises of peace and how it had felt to bury his father, and he knew his answer. He could no longer think of Myrcella, all he could do was hope that one day, when it was all over, that she would forgive him.

“We march on King’s Landing.” He said.  _And I’ll kill them all. Every last one of them_ _._

 

-      **Myrcella –**

 

 

Tyene Sand was every bit the viper her father was.

While the dark, dangerous eyes of her sisters watched her every move, there was something in Tyene’s gaze that made her wary. She sat across from her, her full lips curving into a soft smile as she delicately opened the box that sat on the table between them. She hummed quietly as she sifted through the various vials and herbs before, eventually, she found what she was looking for.

She held up a small, glass vial containing a dark purple liquid.

“What a beautiful way to die,” Tyene mused. “Sweetsleep, laced with Manticore Venom and Nightshade. It is a most rare and deadly poison. The victim will die almost instantly, without pain or suffering. The effects on the body, however, are most… curious.”

Ser Arys shot her the same look he had been giving her for days, one of both concern and disbelief. He thought she was making a mistake. But she had made her choice, there was no turning back now. She glanced at Arianne, who sat beside her, and as though sensing her resolve, the Dornish Princess placed her hand on top of hers and smiled reassuringly.

“Are you certain?” She asked when she looked back at Tyene. “He won’t suffer?”

“The poison attacks the heart, the effects are instant. He will simply… go to sleep.” Tyene answered, her eyes still trained on the poison she held up to the light. “Once the poison has reached the heart, the venom will attack the bloodstream. The face will contort, turning a sort of… beet colour. His eyes may bleed and his tongue will swell, but no, Princess, he will not suffer.”

“It’s still murder, even if it doesn’t hurt.” She murmured, her decision weighing heavy on her.

“I suppose you ought to ask yourself this, Princess. What is better – to live a life in poverty, slowly starving to death, or dying peacefully, in the place of a King?” Tyene asked her, her gaze shifting away from the poison. Her knowing eyes saw too much, and knew the answer without needing to be told. Myrcella bowed her head and the smile returned to Tyene’s lips.

There was no going back.

She had made her choice.

 

-      **Quentyn** –

 

 

As his brother watched his wife and sister’s ship fade to nothing more than a speck on the horizon with a heavy heart, Quentyn took council with his father. It had come as a relief more than anything to learn that his wife wished to return home, to visit the King on his Name Day. His sister’s offer to accompany her there, however, had been surprising, as was the knowledge that she would be joined by several of his uncle’s daughters. But that was their business. It was not his place to question them.

His father’s health was fragile but there was a strength in him when he suddenly reached out to grip Quentyn’s arm. In his other hand was a roll of parchment, yellowed with age and stamped two seals, one Dornish and the other unfamiliar.

“I have a task for you,” his father said as he pressed the letter into his hand. “This was signed long ago, Quentyn, before you were born. You are to give this letter to Daenerys Targaryen and only she may open it. It speaks of an alliance – promising Dorne’s allegiance should Viserys Targaryen make your sister his Queen.”

“But Prince Viserys is dead, Father.”

“It is true, but the same offer of allegiance may be made to his sister.” His father answered, turning his gaze away for a moment, watching the breeze ruffle the leaves of the lemon trees outside. “You will offer yourself.”

“But I am already married, Father.” He argued, frowning slightly.

“Yes, that is true.” His father said quietly, smiling faintly when two children ran past the window, their mother laughing as she gave chase. “But there are ways around these things. Your marriage to Princess Myrcella was a necessity at the time, she is a piece in the game that Dorne needed secured. But the game is changing, and soon there will be very little lions left on the board...”

His father turned and looked back at him, his expression grave.

“The dragons have come again, and we will have our vengeance at last.”

 

-      **Myrcella –**

 

 

The journey to King’s Landing was filled with perils, as if the Gods were punishing her for what she was about to do. The seas were rough and unforgiving, the sky was dark above them and the waves battered against the ship with a vengeance. She was confined to her chambers, listening to the screams of sailors who were caught off-guard and swept overboard.

The storms seemed never ending until, at last, she woke one morning to find the sky clear and the seas calm. Ser Arys opened her door for the first time in over a week and she stepped out onto the deck as the Red Keep came into sight. She stared up at the castle as they passed through the bay, eyes trained on the red stone she knew so well, feeling a sense of homecoming wash over her.

Tears burned in the corners of her eyes when she thought about how long she’d been waiting for this moment, how she’d dreamed of it when staring up at strange stars. She was free from the deserts of Dorne and the strange, lifeless person she had become there. She stared up at the Red Keep with tears streaking down her cheeks, feeling free. But that freedom came with a price. She was reminded of it when she felt a presence beside her and saw Arianne out of the corner of her eye. The Dornish Princess looked up at the Red Keep and saw something entirely different, she was sure. To Arianne, this place was where her plans came together, and where she played a winning hand.

“Are you ready?” Arianne asked her softly, eyes still fixed on the castle.

“No.” She murmured, answering honestly for a change. “But it has to be done.”

She gave the Keep one last look before she turned away, returning to her chambers until they reached the port. Her visit was a surprise, so there were no crowds awaiting her arrival. She donned a simple gown and drew the hood of her cloak over her head as she left the ship. Arianne had dressed similarly, exchanging her Dornish garments for a plain gown and a veil. Ser Arys went on ahead of them in search of horses and returned only moments later with a look of confusion on his face.

“There is a carriage waiting for us, sent by-”

“Let me guess,” she interrupted. “Lord Varys?”

Arianne’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “The Spider?”

“How did you know?” Ser Arys asked, looking genuinely curious.

“Nothing happens in King’s Landing without Varys’ knowledge. His little birds see everything.” She told him as she stood, smoothing the creases from her dress. “I don’t believe he means us harm.”

She couldn’t sit still in the carriage, her leg bouncing on the spot as she counted the minutes until they reached the Keep. Tyene would arrive that evening, giving her one last day with her family before it all changed.

When the carriage rolled to a stop, she was the first one out. Ser Arys hurried after her as she all but ran into the Keep. People stared as she passed and she could feel eyes watching her as she marched into the Throne Room.

When she spotted Tommen, sitting high above them all with a crown on her head, all her doubts faded away. She was doing this for him. She would bare whatever came their way so he didn’t have to.

Her brother’s face lit up when he spotted her and he rose from the throne, bounding down the steps, shouting her name. She rushed forwards and they came crashing together, laughing and sobbing.

“You’re here! You’re here!” Tommen cried. “This isn’t a dream?”

“No, this isn’t a dream.” She murmured, kissing his rosy cheeks.

She spotted her Uncle Tyrion over Tommen’s shoulder, standing by the throne in the place of the Hand of the King once more. She smiled through her tears at him and he gave a funny little bow that made her laugh. She gently untangled herself from Tommen and he grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. Her mother, she realised, was absent. She looked around the room and frowned when she couldn’t find her.

“Where’s Mother?” She asked.

“With Grandfather.” Tommen replied, leading her by the hand to the throne. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see Arianne, but saw only Ser Arys. She supposed Arianne would wait to be presented to the court, as she ought to have done. She looked back and smiled as her uncle approached them, dropping into a crouch so that she could hug him properly.

“I have missed you,” she said.

“And I’ve missed you, my favourite niece.”

“Your _only_ niece.” She chided, but smiled fondly at him as she drew away. Her uncle’s scar was less severe than when she’d last seen him, but he looked weary. She might have asked him what was wrong if not for Tommen persistently tugging on her hand. Her brother dismissed himself from court with a simple way of his hand – something he’d learnt from their mother, not doubt – and her uncle followed as they retreated to the Holdfast.

She smiled at the sight of Ser Barristan stood at the doors to her mother’s solar.

“Princess Myrcella! What a welcome surprise it is to see you back in King’s Landing.” The knight exclaimed, but his tone lacked its usual warmth. He kept his head bowed, she noticed, never quite meeting her eye.

“Thank you, Ser Barristan.” She said, telling herself it was nothing, and the knight opened the door for them to walk through. Her uncle hesitated, his expression similar to the knight’s. He looked strangely… guilty. But Tommen, oblivious, pulled on her hand and dragged her across the threshold into her mother’s solar.

She stepped through the door and stopped, her smile freezing into place.

Stood by the window was her uncle Jaime.

She blinked, not believing what she was seeing. Her uncle looked so different than the last time she’d seen him. He was thin, the clothes he wore hung off him like rags and he had a thick, unkempt beard. He was not the proud, golden lion she remembered.

On his right was her mother, who was no longer in her mourning clothes and looked happier than she’d seen her in a long time, and on his left was her grandfather, who was stood with his back to her. Her mother turned her attention away from her uncle and her lips parted in shock when she caught sight of her. She thought she heard her murmur her name before her mother rushed forwards and dragged her into her arms.

Myrcella buried her face in her mother’s neck, not realising until that moment how much she’d missed her. Her mother drew away and her hands clutched the sides of her face, green eyes searching her face. Her mother gave her a watery smile and pulled her close again, pressing her lips to Myrcella’s forehead.

When her mother eventually drew away from her, she met her uncle’s gaze.

“How is this possible?” She asked, taking a step towards him.

At that, her uncle looked away. His jaw clenched and he gave no answer.

“It doesn’t matter.” Her mother said. “You’re both home. That’s all that matters now.”

“Why are you here?” Her grandfather asked, speaking for the first time.

“I am here for Tommen’s Name day.” She told him, surprised how easy it was to lie. “Prince Quentyn sends his regards. He was unable to join me due to his father’s failing health. Princess Arianne accompanied me in his place.”

Her uncle Tyrion stepped around her and walked over to the corner of the room, where there was a pitcher of wine. He poured himself two glasses, he took one for himself and handed her the other. She raised an eyebrow at him and he said nothing, only motioned for her to drink up. She frowned slightly, but did as she was directed.

“Ned Stark is dead.” He told her and she almost dropped her glass. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her uncle touched her arm and looked sorry that he had to be the one to tell her. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. It’s important you know the truth.”

She looked down at Tommen and saw that even he was refusing to meet her eye. Her little brother stared down at the floor with a guilty expression on his face. Her hands trembled and the wine sloshed around in her glass. Her eyes flickered towards her uncle Jaime and she found him watching her. He held her gaze for a moment, his guarded expression wavering, before he tore his eyes away.

“There was an exchange,” Tyrion continued. “Ned Stark for your uncle. It was meant to mean peace between us and the Northerners. But we were betrayed. Ned Stark was poisoned and your uncle barely made it out alive.”

“Poisoned?” She repeated, her thoughts unwittingly returning to why she was here and what she was about to do. She drank long and deep from her wine and handed her uncle her empty glass. Robb’s father was dead. No, she thought. That isn’t possible. She’d made him a promise. She’d told him she would help him, that he would see his family again… Her throat felt thick and she tasted metal in her mouth, but she couldn’t cry, not yet. She dragged into a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m glad you’re home, Uncle Jaime.”

Her uncle glanced at her and something in his expression changed. He was looking at her like he wanted to tell her something. She looked back at Tommen when he grabbed hold of her hand and she smiled down at him, forcing herself to remember why she was here.

“You must be tired after your journey.” Her mother said, and she forced herself to smile. “Come, I’ll take you to your chambers. After you’ve had a bath and some rest, we’ll have lunch in the gardens.”

Her mother put her arm around her shoulders and guided her from the room. Tommen followed, still holding onto her hand. She looked back as they left the room. She wanted to ask her uncle if he’d been there when Ned Stark had died, but she didn’t dare, not when her grandfather was in the room. So she held her tongue and looked away. There would be time for that later.

She’d have all the time in the world to ask questions when everyone thought her brother was dead.

 

\--

 

 

She gave herself a day. A day without grief and questions and anger, a day in which she took lunch in the gardens with her mother, played with Tommen’s cats and sat in a comfortable silence with her uncle while they both read a book. She sat through a welcoming feast for Princess Arianne and herself, forcing any negative thoughts from her mind.

It was a good day. A happy day.

But now it was over.

Arianne was sat with her in her chambers when Tyene arrived, holding her hand. Tyene didn’t knock, the Sand Snake slipped into the room silently, her face hidden beneath a hood. She pushed back her hood as she stepped into the dim candlelight and when she murmured something, a small boy stepped out from behind her.

The boy was small and thin, with the right coloured hair. An orphan from Lannisport, a gutter rat no one would miss. She took a step forward and lowered herself to the boy’s level. His eyes were hazel.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Myrcella.”

“Hello.” The boy whispered back. “Tyene told me not to tell anyone my name.”

She felt cold when she realised why.

“That’s alright.” She murmured, gently mussing the boy’s fair hair. “Would you like me to tell you a story?”

The boy nodded with a small, shy smile. She took his hand gently and led him to the window seat. The view was beautiful, from there they could see the sea and the stars. The boy’s eyes grew wide as he looked out the window, as if he’d never seen anything like it. She supposed he hadn’t. She gently carted her fingers through her hair as she told him a story, just like she did with Tommen. She told him the story of Lann the Clever and then the tale of Davos the Dragonslayer when he begged for another.

When Tyene handed the boy a drink, she closed her eyes.

She made herself finish her tale while the boy drank, keeping her voice soft and even. It didn’t take long, just like Tyene had promised. The boy’s breath hitched and he went still in her arms. She opened her eyes, watching as Tyene plucked the goblet from the boy’s grasp. He was still for a moment, and then his body suddenly started to convulse. Tyene pulled him from her arms and swiftly laid him down on the floor.

His eyes were bleeding, blood ran down his cheeks like tears. His pupils swelled, swallowing up the hazel irises. She stared down at him, unable to tear her eyes away as the poor boy’s face contorted and his body violently convulsed.

“It’s done.” Tyene breathed and a moment later there was a knock at the door.

Myrcella scrambled to her feet and she ran to the door. She sighed in relief when she opened the door and saw that Ser Arys was alone. It gave her time to say goodbye. She slipped out of the room silently and the knight guided her through the dark, to Tommen’s chambers. Ser Boros had been assigned to guard Tommen’s chambers that evening. Ser Boros was currently deep in his cups in a whorehouse, far from the Keep.

“Wait here.” She whispered when they reached Tommen’s chambers. The knight nodded and she slipped through the doors, creeping through the room to her brother’s bedside. Tommen was buried under a pile of blanket, his fair hair sticking up in all directions. She shook him gently, whispering his name until he stirred.

“’Cella?” He mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s alright.” She whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “Come with me.”

Tommen pushed the covers off himself and slowly clambered out of bed, following her. She led him to the door and pulled him into her arms. “Do you remember what I promised you, after Joffrey hurt you?”

“That you’d always protect me.”

“I need you to remember that promise, Tommen. No matter what happens.” She blinked back tears as she drew away from him, her fingers gently raking through his golden hair. “Ser Arys is going to take you somewhere, where you’ll be safe. I can’t come with you just yet, so I need be brave for me, Tommen.”

“Why can’t you come too?” Tommen asked her, his wide eyes welling up with tears.

“I will, as soon as I can. But you need to go now, Tommen.” She said as she guided him out of the room. Ser Arys nodded at her when she met his gaze and she looked back at Tommen with a lump forming in her throat. “You must listen to everything Ser Arys tells you. No running off, no talking to strangers. You can’t tell anyone who you are.”

“I don’t want to go, not without you.” Tommen cried, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks. She blinked back tears of her own and reached into her dress pocket, pulling out two letters. She handed them to Ser Arys.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

She hugged him one last time and kissed the crown of his head. “Keep him safe.” She whispered and Ser Arys nodded. The knight led her brother down the dark corridor and he kept looking back, the look on Tommen’s face breaking her heart. She turned away, knowing she was going to miss him every day until they were together again - but the worst, she feared, was still ahead of her.

In the morning, the castle would wake and find the King dead.

Her mother would lose another son. And she would be Queen.

 

**\--**

 

In the morning, Myrcella woke to screams.

It was what she had expected. She had known exactly what would happen and what pain she would cause to the people she loved, but she had made her choice – and there was no going back from it. She had done what she thought was right, even if it was unforgivable.

She had expected the screams and the ringing of bells.

But what she hadn’t expected was Arianne bursting into her room.

“They’ve arrested your uncle!” Arianne exclaimed. “They think he killed the King.”

There were many things she’d imagined when she’d first conjured up her plan. She’d pictured herself being arrested or Ser Arys being caught escaping the city. She’d imagined her mother’s face and her grief and her throwing herself from the Red Keep like Ashara Dayne. She imagined many great and terrible things, but never in a million years had she thought her uncle might get caught up in the mess she’d caused.

 

-      **Robb**   -

 

 

Robb stood alone before the Weirwood tree, praying to both the Old Gods and the New. He prayed for his father, whose body had been returned home and now lay with his forefathers in the crypts beneath Winterfell. He prayed that he might find peace, and for his forgiveness. He pressed his hand to the pale trunk of the tree, praying that he could somehow hear him.

His army was massed in the Riverlands, from where they would march on King’s Landing.

Greywind growled and he turned his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber burst into the clearing and he tensed, fearing the worst. “A rider, Your Grace.” Dacey announced. “From King’s Landing.”

When Greywind took off, bounding off in the direction of the castle, Robb followed. He rushed out of the forest with Smalljon and Dacey following close behind him. The rider waited at the main gates, a man striding astride a large white horse. Sat behind him was a smaller figure, who was hidden beneath a large cloak and a hood.

Greywind circled the horse and the rider, but did not growl or snarl. Robb approached him with a dozen swords at his side, his men taking no chances, not after what had happened to his father.

“I know you.” Robb realised when he saw the man’s face more clearly. “You’re a knight. You were -” He stopped when he realised who the man was. He was one of the knights who had first accompanied Myrcella to the North, before Theon had insisted he send them back to King’s Landing. “You are Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard.”

“I have a letter for you, my lord.” The knight said as he dismounted his horse. The knight helped the person riding with him down from the horse, he set them down and stood in front of them protectively as he reached into his cloak and drew out a letter. “From your wife.”

Robb took the letter and stared down at it in disbelief. There was no seal, it was merely a piece of folded parchment. He unfolded it carefully, his fingers tracing the familiar penmanship fondly.

_Dearest Robb,_ Myrcella wrote.

_By the time you are reading this, world will spread that my brother is dead. I let a little boy die so my brother might live. I’m a murderer. A monster. But I have to believe that I did the right thing, to protect Tommen._

_I was told only this morning about your father. I am so sorry, Robb. But I don’t think I was my family behind it. They had too much to lose. With Renly’s forces controlling the Reach and the Stormlands and all this talk of dragons in Essos, they need peace with the North._

_You can trust Ser Arys, he is loyal to me and will not betray you. He has sacrificed everything so that I might take my brother’s place. He has another letter, one which is for Tommen. I don’t know if he’ll ever understand why I had to do this, I can only hope…_

_I don’t have much time. All I can do is ask you to keep my brother safe, and remember that no matter what happens, I love you._

_With all the love that I possess, I remain yours._

Had he the time, he would have read the letter until he knew every word, until it was imprinted on his heart forever. But he forced himself to tuck the letter into the breast pocket of his tunic, keeping her words close to his heart. The knight waited patiently, his face betraying nothing.

“Open the gates.” Robb commanded, ignoring the protests of his men.

He took a step forward and lowered himself into a crouch in front of the small, hooded figure. He pushed back the hood and the teary-eyed face of Myrcella’s brother, King Tommen Baratheon, stared back at him.

_How could I possibly live with myself if I did not do all that was in my power to save him?_ Myrcella had once asked him and Robb frowned as he looked down at the boy, realising that this must have been the only way Myrcella had thought he would be safe.

“This is Ser Arys Oakheart,” he announced as he rose to his feet. He turned to face with men and found them watching him curiously. “And his son, Martyn. They are our guests and will henceforth be under my protection.” He looked back at the knight and Myrcella’s brother and he smiled. “No harm will come to you. You will be safe here, I promise.”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, I heavily edited it because I felt like things were dragging on a bit, so if it's a little short and a little rushed, that's why. I also wrote a majority of it at about 4 in the morning, so if there are mistakes or sentences that don't make sense, that will be why. I hope you'll forgive me for the long wait, and hopefully it was worth it. I made a fanmix to help my muse and you can listen to it here (http://8tracks.com/luculias/the-price-of-love) if you like :)


	20. Chapter 20

_My crown is in my heart, not on my head;_

_not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen:_

_my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy._

 

The bells rang long into the night, chiming in sorrow.

In the streets the news was whispered and shouted until all knew the horrible truth. _The King is dead!_ They cried. _Murdered!_ There was anger and sadness in amongst the common people, but within the Great Sept of Baelor, all was silent, save the ringing of the bells. They dressed in black, grief weighing heavily upon them all.

Myrcella’s gaze lingered on the bier which sat in the heart of the Sept, surrounded by dripping candles and kneeled figures whispering prayers. They had dressed Joffrey in gilded armour and laid him to rest with his sword clasped in his hands. A warrior’s death. This boy - whose name she didn’t even know – wore a crown upon his head and a fine tunic with a cloak of red and gold. Painted stones rested upon his eyelids and a fine cloth was draped over his face, keeping what the poison had done to him hidden from sight.

Her grandfather stood opposite her, on the other side of the raised platform. His face gave nothing away. His gaze shifted to his son, who stood by at Myrcella’s side in the full armour of the Kingsguard once more. Her uncle’s eyes were fixed on her mother, as they had been since the moment the last funeral rites had been uttered.

She could not bring herself to look at her mother, who kneeled at the alter of the Mother, whispering prayers under her breath. Her mother, lost in grief, was inconsolable. The truth lingered on the tip of her tongue, knowing she could take her pain away, but –

She couldn’t. She had sacrificed too much to go back now. She had taken a boy’s life so that her brother might live, and no matter how much her mother’s grief broke her heart, no one could know the truth.

A lone tear rolled down her cheek and she tore her gaze away.

It wasn’t Tommen, her brother yet lived – but it still hurt. Tyene had promised her that the boy would have died anyway, but all the same… who was she to deem Tommen’s life worth more than his?

Myrcella lifted her hands and buried her face in them, trying to hide her tears. When her shoulders started to shake, an arm wrapped around her, drawing her close. Her uncle swept her into his arms and she sobbed against his chest, fingers curling around his white cloak. _It’s my fault_ , she wanted to tell him. _Uncle Tyrion might die and it’s all my fault._

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t.

_A monster_ , she thought despairingly.

_I have become a monster in the name of love._

“Your Grace,” her grandfather said. “It is time to return to the Keep.”

Her uncle’s arms slid away as quickly as they had come and she drew away slowly, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her grandfather remained stony-faced, expressionless. She straightened her posture under his watchful gaze and forced herself to nod, following him as he led the way out of the Sept. She looked back when she reached the steps, looking back at the poor child who she had given to the Stranger. She prayed that he might forgive her, even if she knew she could never forgive herself.

Her grandfather escorted her out of the Sept in silence. Behind them were five guards and five knights of the Kingsguard. She was the last that she was left. They weren’t going to take any chances; she would be watched and followed wherever she went, and she would be kept hidden away from all the world’s perils until the day came that she had an heir to succeed her.

Or someone killed her.

Such was the life of a King and a Queen, and it was this life and all its perils that she hoped she had saved her brother from.

“Would you like to know what I asked your brother after Joffrey’s death?” Her grandfather asked and her eyebrows drew together in confusion. She could not remember Tommen ever mentioning it, Tommen had always been afraid of their grandfather and avoided speaking to him as much as he was able. “I asked him what kind of king he’d like to be. A good king, he said. And he may have, had he lived.”

“But he’s dead.”

_And I’m all that’s left._

“Yes,” her grandfather said as they descended the steps, his tone different and unfeeling. “Tommen is dead. As is Joffrey. So I will ask you this, what do you think makes a good ruler? Is it holiness? Strength? Or is it something else?”

“Wisdom,” she answered. “And kindness.”

If her grandfather was surprised at the swiftness of her answer, he did not show it. Instead he merely nodded.

“A wise ruler knows when to listen,” was his advice.

She was uncomfortable under her grandfather’s calculating gaze. She could guess what he was thinking as he sized her up. She was not like Joffrey, and her grandfather thought he could mould her into the ruler of his choosing, one who listened to his every word, as he had done with Tommen. But she would not be so easily manipulated. Flatterers and fools, her father had once called the people of court. And she supposed he was right, people would seek to use her, to control her for their own gain.

Her grandfather took his leave of her then, allowing her to clamber into the waiting carriage and return to the Keep.

She was moved into her new chambers that afternoon. And as Joffrey’s had become Tommen’s, Tommen’s chambers became hers. The King’s Chambers became the Queen’s. It was difficult to sleep, her only comfort was her brother’s kittens. Her brother’s many cats filled up the empty bed space beside her, the sounds of their purrs making her feel less alone. She would have to find a way to get them to him, somehow. Tommen would miss his kittens terribly.

She was woken early, when the first light of dawn was spreading across the sky. Unfamiliar handmaidens bowed respectfully to her, and it was with a twinge of regret that she realised Rosamund was not amongst them. She had left her behind, in Dorne. She hoped that the girl might be happier there, now that she was gone.

She was dressed in a gown she had never seen before, one which she was told her uncle Tyrion had wished she might wear on her wedding day – but her mother, in her anger over the union, had refused. The gold embroidered gown, with its light armored bodice and Myrish lace, made her look the part, even if she did not feel it. Her long hair was piled on the top of her head in artful plaits and a single gold chain hung from her neck, encrusted with rubies – a gift, she was told, from Prince Quentyn, whose absence she could not bring herself to mourn.

It was with great deal of that she allowed herself to be escorted from her chambers.

The ceremony was indeed to be quiet, respectful, and yet more than a hundred people were gathered in the Throne Room, watching her as she made the long walk to her throne. The Iron Throne had never seemed to tower so high as when she stood beneath it. She gathered her skirts, lifting them above her ankles as she made her way up the steps.

She turned to face the crowd as the High Septon stepped up to perform his duty.

From where she stood she could see her mother, pale and dressed in mourning. Her mother stared into nothingness; she was the only person in the room who was not staring at her, and yet, for just a moment she found herself wishing that she’d look up, so she could look into her eyes and somehow tell her that everything would be alright. _He’s alive_ , she wanted to tell her. _He’s safe, and I’m sorry._

But her mother did not look up.

“…In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Myrcella of the House Baratheon, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.” The Septon announced as he lowered her crown onto her head.

“Long may she reign!”

As she lowered herself onto her throne, she caught sight of Princess Arianne and Prince Oberyn amongst the cheering crowd. Their smiles were victorious. Dorne had waited a long time for a chance like this. As her subjects came one by one, to greet her and promise their undying loyalty, she felt the bite of the swords and hid the small trickle of blood that ran down her arm. Her uncle Tyrion had once told her tales of the Iron Throne, how it was no assassin that killed Maegor the Cruel but the throne itself. She shifted in her seat, eyeing the nearest swords warily as Prince Oberyn and Princess Arianne approached her.

“Long live the Queen,” Prince Oberyn proclaimed as he sank into a low bow.

Arianne grinned. “Long may you reign.”

 

\-     **Robb**   -

The boy was quiet, angry and sorrowful. He was not the boy he remembered, nor the child Myrcella had described. The boy was dressed as a squire, so gone were the fine cloaks and tunics of court. Dye had been coated through his hair, leaving the golden head of Lannister curls dark and unrecognisable. The boy sat at the table, legs too short to reach the ground, green eyes dark as he glared down at his supper. Arys Oakheart frowned at the boy and cleared his throat.

“Martyn –” the knight began to say, but stopped when the boy turned his glare on him.

“That’s not my name, and you are not my father.” The boy hissed and the knight sighed, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. “I want my sister.” The boy demanded, shooting the knight an angry look. “Why did you take me from her? Why is she not here?”

Robb found himself looking away, wondering how many times he had asked himself the same questions. Only, the question he found himself asking more and more was – _why did you ever let her go?_ As though it were yesterday, he remembered standing upon the docks of White Harbor, watching her go. He would never forget how she had smiled, it was burned eternally into his memory. _We’ll be alright, you and I,_ she had promised him. But she wasn’t here. She was far, far away from him.

_So much for your promises,_ he thought to himself as his grip tightened on his fork.

As though sensing his thoughts, the boy’s eyes lifted and his gaze met Robb’s. His eyes, so like Myrcella’s, so like the Kingslayer’s, burned like wildfire. “She said you loved her. So why haven’t you saved her?”

Robb bowed his head. He had no answer. How could he begrudge Myrcella for failing to keep her promises when he himself did the same? He had made so many promises, none which he had been able to keep. Once he had promised to bring his father and sisters home. Now he promised vengeance. He promised war…

“Princess Myrcella will come as soon as she is able. You must not lose faith in her, _Martyn_.” Ser Arys told the boy with an edge to his voice that caught Robb’s attention. In her letter, Myrcella had spoken of the knight’s loyalty. He saw it then. “Your sister believed it was safer for you here than King’s Landing and so -”

“She should be _here_ if it isn’t safe!” Tommen cried, banging his hands down on the table.

“And she will,” the knight promised. “Once she is able.”

The knight made it seem so simple. Robb wished it were so. But with the King believed dead, Myrcella was the next – and last – in line. She would be Queen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He would have her be _his_ Queen – the Queen in the North – not the Queen of his enemies.

Robb frowned down at his untouched supper, realising the horrible truth - how could he go to war when it was his wife his army was marching on? If he gave the order that she was not to be harmed, his men would obey him, nevertheless the same could not be said of Lord Renly and his armies. If the truth was to be revealed, and Myrcella was exposed as being born of the unholy union between the Queen and her twin brother, then she would be no threat to throne. And then perhaps she would be spared.

“Why did she have to stay behind?” He heard the boy ask, drawing him from his thoughts. “Tell me!”

The knight had not given Tommen his letter, Robb realised. He was just a child, but he deserved to know the truth.

“To protect you.” He answered for the knight. “Everything she does is to protect you.”

“She thinks I’m too young to understand but I _know.”_ Tommen cried, the anger fading from his face. “I know what they did to her and I – I think I know what she did to bring me here. But she shouldn’t –” Tears were rolling down the boy’s cheeks now as he choked back a sob. “She can’t – I need her. ‘Cella should be here.”

The knight’s eyes were filled with sadness when he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“She should.” Robb murmured. She would like it here in Riverrun.

Robb rose to his feet and strode over to the window. It was time, he decided. Lord Renly’s army was massed in the Reach and his in the Riverlands. They could not afford to delay any longer, not with the threat of the Dornish alliance looming over their heads. If they acted swiftly, taking advantage of the King’s supposed death, then they might catch them by surprise and end this once and for all.

“By the next moon, we march on King’s Landing.” He told them. He turned away from the window, looking back at Myrcella’s brother. “You will see your sister again soon, Tommen. I promise.”

Another promise he did not know if he could keep. But he had to try. He had lost so much and he had fought too hard to give up now.

 

\-   **Myrcella** -

 

It was raining on the day of Tyrion Lannister’s trial. Black clouds blanketed the sky, and there was an unnatural chill in the air. The rain hammered against the walls of the Red Keep, the wind lashing the sea into a fury below. The Throne Room was filled with noise, loud angry voices fighting over each other to be heard as the prisoner was hauled into the room.

The accused was beaten and shackled, his hair unkempt and his beard thick. To some, he looked like a monster. They spat at him, cursed him, called him names. And Myrcella, who knew the truth, could do nothing but watch as her uncle stepped up to the podium. Her mother had asked her to recuse herself, so that the judgement might be made by her grandfather, but she had refused. On her right stood her grandfather and on her left was Prince Oberyn. She was her uncle’s only chance – on one side, stood a man who hated all Lannisters and on the other, was a man who hated his son for simply being born what he was.

Myrcella sat when her grandfather did, and grimaced when she realised it was time for her to speak.

“Tyrion of the House Lannister,” she began. “You stand accused of regicide.”

“Did you kill King Tommen?” Her grandfather asked, shooting her a look which told her she was finished. Her part was done. She looked back at her uncle and saw him shake his head. Her grandfather sighed. “Did someone kill the King on your behalf?”

“No.” Her uncle said.

“How would you say he died?”

Her uncle shrugged. “He was poisoned.”

“So you would blame the cooks? The servants?”

“As long as you leave me out of it.” Her uncle muttered.

The trial was a farce. Every witness her grandfather called was either a liar or a fool. They spoke of her uncle’s hate for Joffrey, they accused him of hating her mother and they asked all the wrong questions. Some even accused him of siding with Renly, that he was making his way through Robert Baratheon’s heirs until there were none left. No one ever asked where Ser Arys was, or where Ser Boros had been that night, or how he had managed to steal the poison without being discovered. Her uncle, it seemed, had been deemed guilty the moment her mother accused him.

“‘I will hurt you for this,’” her mother told them in a wavering voice. “‘I don't know how yet, but give me time. A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you’ll know the debt is paid.’”

Her grandfather called a break after that and she rose to her feet, desperate for some air. She watched as her uncle Jaime crossed across the room, following her grandfather. She waited, watching as people slowly filed out of the room until she, her guards and her uncle were the only ones left. Her uncle slumped against the podium, and for a moment she thought he was crying, but then she heard him laugh.

“When did I make so many enemies?” He asked, laughing.

“You didn’t kill Tommen.” She said as she approached him.

Her uncle smirked slightly. “Are you sure?”

“I know you didn’t kill him,” she told him. “But they’re going to find you guilty, I’m sure of it.”

“You shouldn’t be talking to me.” He said, looking away from her. She heard him sigh. Myrcella turned away, guilt tearing through her. This wasn’t what she wanted. None of this. All she had wanted was to help Tommen, and instead she had caused more harm than good. If anyone deserved to be on trial, it was her. She was the monster, not her uncle.

The trial went on for several days, each witness her grandfather called either spoke in half-truths or repeated what she suspected her mother had paid them to say. Her uncle’s resolve did not father however, for all the lies which were spoken about him. He lost his temper, but he did not break. Not until her. The woman was someone she’d seen around the Keep from time to time, but never paid much attention to. She was small and beautiful and looked at her uncle only once as she spoke.

“ _Shae.”_ Her uncle called out, his voice small and broken.

“He hated Joffrey, he was happy when he died, and he poisoned Tommen to get what he wants.” Shae told them. “Tyrion wants to have the throne. He was going to kill his sister next, and then his own lord father, so he could be Hand for Princess Myrcella. But after a year or so, before Myrcella got too old, he would have killed her too, so as to take the crown for his own head.”

“Why would he tell you this?” Prince Oberyn asked, looking intrigued.

“I was his whore.” Shae answered.

A hush fell over the room and when she started to tell them all the things her uncle did to her, they all started to laugh. Myrcella, her uncle Jaime and her grandfather were the only ones not laughing at her uncle. Her grandfather’s face looked like it was made of stone, cold and calculating, he gave nothing away. She wondered if her uncle would ever forgive her, if she told him the truth. “It’s true,” Shae protested, making them all laugh some more. Even her mother, deep in mourning, was bitter enough to laugh. “My giant of Lannister.”

Tyrion pushed forwards, shamming his hands down against the podium.

“Get this lying whore out of my sight,” he shouted, “and I will give you your confession.”

Her grandfather leaned forwards in his chair. “You wish to confess?”

Myrcella’s hands were shaking. _End this now,_ a part of her begged, _tell the truth._ She pressed her lips together to stop herself from crying out. _You can save him, you can stop this._ But Tommen – if she saved her uncle, what would come of Tommen? If they knew her brother was alive, they would put a crown on his head and cut hers off. They’d kill Ser Arys, Arianne, Tyene… Dorne would burn, and it would all be for nothing.

But her uncle would be spared.

“I saved you,” her uncle said to the crowd behind him. “I saved this city and all your worthless lives. I should have let Stannis kill you all.”

“Do you wish to confess!” Her grandfather shouted over the noise of the crowd.

“Yes, Father. I’m guilty. Guilty! Is that what you want to hear?”

“You admit you poisoned the King?”

“No, of that I’m innocent. I'm guilty of a far more monstrous crime. I'm guilty of being a dwarf!” Her uncle said, and when her grandfather protested, his eyes narrowed. “I've been on trial for that my entire life. But I will say this, I did not do it. I did not kill Tommen. He was a sweet and innocent boy, he was everything Joffrey was not.”

Tyrion turned, looking at the crowd that hated him. “I wish I was the monster you think I am!  I wish I had enough poison for the whole pack of you! I would gladly give my life to watch you all swallow it! I am innocent, but I will get no justice here. You leave me no choice but to appeal to the gods. I demand trial by combat.”

“Have you taken leave of your wits?” Her grandfather said.

“No, I’ve found them. I demand trial by combat.”

Amidst deafening uproar, she heard her uncle laugh at the looks on all their faces. Myrcella looked around, her eyes wide in shock. She had never seen her mother look so stunned, nor seen such fury in her grandfather’s eyes. Only Prince Oberyn smiled. The Dornish Prince leaned back in his chair, looking like a man who was getting everything he wanted. Her grandfather stared at his son in cold fury as he was dragged out of the room. When the heavy doors slammed close and her uncle was out of sight, her mother and grandfather strode from the room.

The crowd did not quieten when she rose to her feet, did not bow in respect to their Queen as she left the room. They did not seem to notice. She left the Throne Room with her guards, wringing her hands together. A trial by combat would give her uncle a chance, but for that he needed a champion – and after what he had said, who would wish to fight for him? And her mother would have her pick of champions. She would find the best fighter in the Seven Kingdoms so that she knew there was no chance of her uncle’s champion succeeding.

Myrcella paced the width of her chambers for a long time, trying to collect her thoughts. It was the one place where she was alone. Four guards stood outside her door, but did not have permission to enter. But then again, even here she was not alone. Tommen’s kittens sat on the bed, watching her, following her movements with interest. It was almost enough to make her smile.

It was late when there was a knock at the door. She was sat on the edge of her bed, playing with Ser Pounce to pass the time when Arianne entered the room. Arianne suited court life, not matter how much she complained about the stench of the city. She looked more like a Queen than Myrcella did. But Arianne, she reminded herself with a faint smile, was not a Queen, but a Queenmaker.

“There you are,” Arianne murmured as she sat down on the bed beside her. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?” She asked, frowning when Arianne took hold of one of her hands.

“I have news,” The Dornish Princess said. “Ser Gregor Clegane has been nominated as your mother’s champion. And my uncle has nominated himself. He will stand for your uncle, and he will not fail.”

She thought of Prince Oberyn’s smile during the trial and suddenly it all made sense. “Of course,” she murmured. “The Mountain. He was the one… I mean, they say that he was the one who killed Princess Elia during my father’s rebellion.”

Arianne’s smile dimmed. “Killed? No, they were not killed. They were butchered. _Murdered.”_

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to sound callous.” She murmured, surprised by Arianne’s tone. She turned her hand over and gripped Arianne’s. Arianne’s lip twitched after a moment, and she smiled. She raised their joint hands to her lips and kissed Myrcella’s knuckles. “When is the trial?”

“In the morning,” Arianne answered and then she glanced out the window, sighing when she saw how dark it was. “It’s late, Your Grace. You should rest, you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

As Arianne started to pull away, Myrcella tightened her grip on her hand.

“Will you stay? I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Arianne smiled.

She had been so hesitant to trust Arianne. She had all but refused to let her in during all those months in Dorne. She supposed a small part of her had blamed her, had projected some of her anger onto her, as if it was somehow Arianne’s fault she had been forced to marry her brother. But as she slipped out of her dress, pulled her nightgown over her smallclothes and crawled into bed beside the Dornish Princess, she realised she had been wrong. She had herself convinced that she had only been pretending, that when she called Arianne her sister it was a lie. But the Arianne who lay beside her, who held her hand and kept her guilt at bay, was her friend.

She slept easier, knowing she was not alone.

And when she woke, Arianne was still there. Her handmaidens whispered about it, when they came to dress the Queen and found her good-sister sleeping in her bed. _Let them whisper,_ she thought as they tugged a brush through her hair. They tried to dress her in black, in heavy mourning clothes (which she assumed was her mother’s idea) and she waved them away, choosing a soft blue gown instead.

She left Arianne to sleep and was escorted out of the Keep, to where the trial was taking place.

The day was warm and sunny, too beautiful for what was about to transpire. She took her place between her mother and grandfather and when she sat, the High Septon shuffled forwards and had to yell to be heard over the noise of the crowd. She looked for her uncle, who stood at the fringe of the fighting pit, hands still shackled as he spoke with his champion. Prince Oberyn was drinking wine and when the Mountain was presented, she thought she saw him grin.

“Have they told you who I am?” Prince Oberyn asked.

“Some dead man.” Ser Gregor grunted, and then it begun.

Prince Oberyn’s movements were quick, graceful. The Mountain swung his heavy greatsword and every time, the Prince danced out of its reach. “I am Oberyn Martell, a prince of Dorne,” he said as he spun out of the way of the Mountain’s sword. “Princess Elia was my sister.”

“Who?” Ser Gregor dared to ask.

“Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne,” Prince Oberyn hissed as his spear sliced against Ser Gregor’s metal breastplate. The Mountain grunted and swung again, but Prince Oberyn was too quick. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.”

The fight seemed to go on for a very long time. She had never seen anything quite like it. She had watched Robb spar and remembered the way he fought against the wildlings in the woods – but this was different. This wasn’t about survival, or even a fight at all. Prince Oberyn was toying with Ser Gregor. Prince Oberyn danced around the Mountain, circling him, never letting him out of his sight. Ser Gregor swung and grunted and slashed at the air, but never hit him. “You raped her.” The Prince yelled with each jab of his spear. “You murdered her. You killed her children.”

“I will hear you say it.” Prince Oberyn swore. “She was Elia of Dorne.”

And then, the Mountain stumbled. Prince Oberyn slashed at the man’s heels, struck him hard across the back and drove his spear through his chest. The Mountain’s shield slipped from his grasp and he toppled to the ground. He lay on his back, his blood spreading across the stone and the Prince leaned over him, pressing the sharp end of his spear to his throat.

“If you die before you say her name, ser, I will hunt you through all seven hells,” he promised.

The Mountain was muttering something, and Prince Oberyn stepped closer, leaning in to hear. Myrcella wasn’t the only one who gasped when Ser Gregor’s hand shot out and grabbed Prince Oberyn by the leg. Ser Gregor pulled at him, trying to drag him down to the ground, but the Dornishman struggled against him, pushing his knee down on the man’s chest, grinding down on his wound. Ser Gregor roared in pain and his grip on the Dornishman loosened enough that he slipped free and danced out of the man’s reach.

“Say it!” Prince Oberyn screamed, driving his spear into Ser Gregor’s throat.

And then the Mountain, choking on his own blood, spoke.

“Elia Martell,” Ser Gregor gasped. “I raped her. I killed her children. I smashed her fucking head in -”

Ser Gregor’s head fell back and with one final spew of blood, Prince Oberyn ripped his spear from his throat. The crowd, which had been in pandemonium, fell silent in shock. Prince Oberyn threw down his spear and with one final glance at the body of Ser Gregor Clegane, stalked over to his paramour, took her in his arms and kissed her. The crowd recovered then, the uproar was deafening.

When it became clear that her grandfather was not going to stand and free her uncle from his charges, Myrcella rose to her feet. She felt her mother grab at her arm, her fingers cold and tight around her wrist. The crowd quietened when she stepped forward. “The Gods have made their will known,” she announced. “Tyrion of the House Lannister is innocent of the charges against him and will hereby be released.”

Her uncle looked like he could kiss Prince Oberyn when the shackles were removed from his wrists. She felt herself smile.  Hearing a chair scrape across the ground, she looked back. The look on her mother’s face as she stood made the brief smile slip from her lips. Her uncle would die if he stayed in King’s Landing. He needed to get out while he still could, before her mother killed him.

She wanted to go to him, to tell him that she would find a way help him, but she was whisked away before she had the chance. As if her mother knew what she might do, she was confined to her chambers after they had taken lunch together and essence of nightshade was mixed into her wine. In the morning, she told herself as she slipped into a deep dreamless sleep, she would tell her uncle.

In the morning, she would tell him everything.

But in the morning, her uncle was gone and Tywin Lannister was dead.

 

\--

 

The death of Lord Tywin Lannister changed everything.

And little by little, things began to crumble.

The Great Lion of House Lannister was dead, and what protection his reputation alone had given them was gone. The common folk were afraid. The Westernlands were burning, pillaged and destroyed. Casterly Rock lay empty, ripe for the taking. The common folk whispered about the Queen’s mother going mad, some say they even heard her screams echoing down from the Keep. They called Myrcella their Little Queen, weak and defenceless against what was coming, in bed with vipers which would soon abandon her.

Kevan Lannister was their last hope, or House Lannister would fall.

Lord Renly was coming, and an army of Northerners too.

In her father’s day, the common folk had flocked to the Red Keep daily to make requests of the King. But under the reign of Queen Myrcella, the Throne Room lay empty. Her grandfather had told her that a wise ruler listened to their advisors – but the small council was a weak and fragile thing. Varys, the spider, had vanished after her grandfather’s death. Lord Baelish had left, retreating to the Eyrie to marry Lysa Tully. Oberyn Martell was dismissed, ordered to return to Dorne.  She trusted only the advice of her grand-uncle, Kevan and Ser Barristan.

When Renly’s army and the Northerners met and took Harrenhal, people began to flee.

Whoever was caught trying to escape the Keep was executed on her mother’s command. Their heads decorated spikes along the Traitor’s Walk. She tried to be strong, to show the frightened people of court that their Queen was unafraid, but hope seemed lost. They all seemed so certain that they were going to die, that all would fail. And in time, she too began to doubt.

Dorne had answered her call for help, but no army arrived. Arianne promised that they were coming, that her father would not abandon them, but the look in Kevan Lannister’s eyes told her otherwise. They were on their own. Doran Martell had abandoned them.

When Renly’s army reached the Kingsroad, she told Arianne to go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Arianne promised her as she took her hand and placed a kiss into the palm of her hand. “We are Martells of Dorne, Myrcella. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken._ The might of Dorne will come. My father would not dare to abandon us.”

In the end, the might of Dorne was not an army, but the daughters of Oberyn Martell.

The Sand Snakes, who Arianne promised would stand with her until the very end, were all Prince Doran offered her. So many of her own men had perished in the Battle of Blackwater, and even more had died trying to take back the Westernlands from the Northerners. Her army was weak, broken without Tywin Lannister leading them. She had only her uncle, who she sent to command them, in the hope that Tywin Lannister’s son, the Golden Lion of House Lannister, would be enough.

Her mother wept without her brother at her side and wore only black, lost in the world of grief.

When Renly’s army reached the Crownlands, her mother started to whisper to herself and yell at voices only she heard. Mad, they called her. And sometimes, Myrcella thought they might be right. _Until there comes anothe_ r, her mother often whispered under her breath. _Until there comes another…_ She never told her what it meant, just looked at her with haunted eyes.

“He’s coming,” her mother cried when a messenger warned that Renly’s army had been spotted nearing the village of Brindlewood. Myrcella turned to her mother, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. Her mother was cold, her hands trembling. “He’s coming for me.”

“Who is?” She asked and her mother turned her haunted gaze upon her.

“ _Tyrion_.”

She didn’t listen when she tried to tell her otherwise, she started to clutch at her throat with her shaking hands. “And when your tears have drowned you,” her mother continued in a whisper, “the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”

And then her mother began to weep and nothing she said could console her.

When at last Renly’s army and the Northerners reached King’s Landing, her army was waiting for them. She and those who came to her to seek refuge were as safe as they could be, secured within Maegor’s Holdfast, the massive fortress and castle-within-a-castle. She almost wished she could be out there, amongst the soldiers, fighting for her life rather than hiding behind locked doors and fearing for it. She recalled what her mother had told her during the Battle of Blackwater – _we wait word of victory or axes breaking down the door._

She had knights to defend her should the worst happen, and a sword of her own tucked under her cushion. Gendry’s sword. The beautiful sword her bastard-brother had forged, with the direwolf emblem etched into the hilt. She had meant to give the blade to Tommen, to take with him to Winterfell, but in the end, she had been unable to part with it.

“Will you pray with us, Your Grace?” One of the highborn ladies asked, and she rose to her feet at once. She had been watching her mother, who was sat in the corner of the room, face buried in her hands, whispering to herself. She was not the same woman who had sat in the very same room during another battle, bitter, drunk and calmly accepting their fate. Somehow, she was worse. She had never seen her look so afraid. But it was not Renly and his soldiers she feared, it was something else – the valonqar, whatever that might be.

She sat down in a circle with several highborn ladies and closed her eyes, whispering a prayer to the Mother.

There was no wildfire to save them this time, no trick up her sleeve. Her grandfather wasn’t coming. She prayed to the Mother that whoever won would be merciful. She prayed that Robb, whoever he was, whether he was on the battlefield or in the Riverlands with her brother, was safe.

The battle lasted for a very long time. And time passed strangely when you were fearing for your life. Sometimes, she was certain days had passed since the bells had started to ring. Other times, it felt like it had only been a moment. Reports came in occasionally, a soldier breathlessly telling her how her soldiers were faring. Her uncle and Ser Barristan Selmly led the men well, she was told, fighting in the very thick of it. She walked to one of the windows, from where she could look down at the battle below. People were dying and all she could do was sit and pray and wait. And for what? An uncomfortable throne and a broken kingdom.

Myrcella knew enough about being Queen that she did not want it anymore. She had thought that being Queen might mean she could help her people, but all she could do was watch them die in a war that neither of them had started. There no honour in it, not like in the songs.

She wondered if Renly would kill her, should he win. He was her uncle, surely he had loved her once. But if he meant to take King’s Landing and her throne, he would have no choice. There could be no doubt about his right to rule. She would have to die. He would have to kill her. She could only hope that he would be merciful and that she would not die like Elia Martell and her children. But Robb – if Robb was truly fighting alongside Renly, would he stand by and let her die?

She sighed as she pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, eyes still fixed on the battle below. _I should have liked to see him again, before I die._ It made her think of a time which felt like a thousand years ago, when Robb had made her a promise she had naively hoped he would keep. _No other place would ever do_ , Robb had told her, promising that the only place he would die was by her side, _not when I could be with you, when we have seen winters come and go and we are as old as Old Nan._ They were supposed to grow old together, surrounded by their children, in Winterfell, where they both belonged. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

“The battle is lost, Your Grace.” The soldier told her when he returned and she turned away from the window to face him. He sank to one knee in front of her and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Lord Renly’s troops have breached the gates.”

The drawbridge to Maegor’s Holdfast had been drawn. It was the only way in. They had enough food to last them several months. They could hide in here until the food ran out, until they slowly starved, or… Myrcella glanced at her mother and found her watching her. Something unspoken passed between them. Her mother got to her feet and walked to her side. She took her hand and led her from the room without a word. Arianne called her name and she looked back over her shoulder.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” She told her, and it wasn’t until she spoke the words aloud that she realised they were a lie.

She and her mother walked in silence, hand in hand, to the Queen’s Ballroom.

“Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds.” Her mother whispered as they sat together in the heart of the throne room. It was here, on these thrones that her mother and father had sat during feasts, where Joffrey had received gifts on his Name Day, where Tommen might have sat someday with his bride. Her mother wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. “I won’t let them hurt you,” she said.

Her mother turned her hand over and uncurled her fingers. A small vial lay on the palm of her hand, its liquid amber coloured. She knew enough about poisons from Tyene to know what it was. Sweetsleep. Drink enough of it and you’ll fall into a sleep you’ll never wake from. But in the vial her mother held, there was only enough for one. Tears stung in the corners of her eyes when she met her mother’s gaze and understood.

Her hands shook as she took the vial.

“I will keep you safe, my love. I promise you.”

Her mother stroked her hair, her hands soft and gentle. As she wrapped her fingers around the vial, her mother told her the story she used to tell her and Joffrey when they were children, the story of the mother lion and her cub. She had always liked that story, it had always comforted her when she was afraid. “Little cub was frightened. His mother said, ‘You are a lion, my son, you mustn't be afraid.’”

Myrcella closed her eyes. “They will all come to you, little lion, to rest a crown upon your head. And the cub said, ‘Will I be strong and fierce like my father?’. ‘Yes’" said his mother, ‘you will be strong and fierce just like your father.’”

She had always thought her mother meant Robert Baratheon. But in her story, the stags were evil too. And if her uncle was to be believed, Robert Baratheon was not her father. There were so many things she didn’t know, so many things she didn’t understand. But there was no time now. Myrcella’s eyes opened and her fingers pried the lid from the vial. She stared down at the poison, and she knew her death was close, whether she drank the poison or not. She could starve to death in the Holdfast, she could lower the drawbridge and be killed like Elia Martell or she could be shackled and bound and executed. She was going to die, and she was afraid.

“Tommen,” she whispered, unable to hold onto the truth, “he’s not –”

Her mother smiled. “You will see him soon, my sweet.”

Myrcella blinked the tears from her eyes as her mother kissed the crown of her head. She looked back at the vial and tightened her grip on it. She wondered how Tommen would feel when he learnt that she was dead. Who would be the one to tell him? Robb? Ser Arys? It didn’t matter, as long as he was safe and saved from this fate. She could hear the battle growing closer, the shouting and clanging of steel growing louder.

She lifted the vial to her lips.

“Cersei –”

Surprise, and the way her mother suddenly jerked, made her grip on the vial loosen and it slipped from her fingers. The vial fell, smashing on the stone floor, and she was the only one who seemed to notice. Her mother sprang to her feet and with a sharp intake of breath, took in the person stood at the doorway. Myrcella followed her gaze. She looked over her shoulder and saw her uncle Jaime. His sword was bloody and he looked like he had fought through all seven hells to get to them. He took a staggering step towards them and her mother rushed towards him, falling into his arms. They embraced for a long time, neither speaking, simply holding onto to each other.

It was as she watched them, that she thought she – finally – understood.

“Uncle.” She said, but they both knew that was a lie.

“Renly has taken the city. He has won.” He told them.

So much of her life had been decided for her. She had had so little say in so many things. She had never had a choice when it came to who she married or where she was sent. She had a choice now. She could hide in the Holdfast, she could try to run or she could face her death with courage and be strong and fierce, like her father. She didn’t want to die running or afraid. Perhaps this way she might see Robb, one last time.

“I’m going to join the others,” she told them as she stood. “They need to be informed.”

For a moment, her mother looked like she was going to stop her. As she passed, she held out her hand and drew Myrcella close again. She felt her uncle’s hand on her shoulder as she drew away and she smiled weakly for them both. Once, she had told Tyrion that she understood why her mother took a lover, and that she wasn’t angry. When she looked at her mother and the man she had grown up believing was her uncle, she realised she still meant it.

She walked away without letting herself look back.

She was almost tempted to return to where she had hidden her sword, so that she might defend herself if the worst happened, but she knew she couldn’t, not without Arianne asking questions. Arianne would try to stop her, and that couldn’t happen. So instead she focused on putting one foot in front of the other until she reached the drawbridge.

“Lower it.” She said to the guard who stood watch over it.

“Your Grace -”

“Lower it.” She repeated. “And after I have passed, raise it again.”

She stared the guard down until he complied, lowering the drawbridge with a reluctance that might have made her smile on any other day. She could hear the fighting, it was far louder here than in the Queen’s ballroom. The soldiers were close. Very close. She could hear them breaking down the doors to the Keep. She crossed the drawbridge, willing her trembling hands to still. She made herself continue, walking through the dark, shadowy corridors of Keep until she reached the Throne Room.

Myrcella sat on the Iron Throne and she waited.

_You are a lion, you mustn't be afraid._

When the doors broke open and soldiers with bloody swords rushed into the hall, she kept her head held high. She composed herself as her mother would’ve, unflinching, with her chin raised and her back straight. She kept her hands clasped together on her lap, hiding how they trembled. _Don’t let them know you’re afraid,_ her mother’s voice whispered in her head. She watched the soldiers are they filed into the room, dozens of them, soaked in blood and hoisting their banners high. Some held up golden flags with dancing, crowned stags and others, raised aloft the grey direwolf. They stared at her, sat high above them on the Iron Throne, and slowly began to lower their swords.

And then she saw him.

“ _Robb_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, I'm actually quite happy with this chapter. I edited it heavily, so if it feels a tad rushed that'll be why. Pretty much all of the dialogue from Tyrion's trial and Oberyn's fight against The Mountain is taken word-for-word from both the book and the show, because both scenes are so perfect that I didn't want to mess with it. I also couldn't help but add Cersei's story from the Battle of Blackwater, because that's one of my favourite scenes from the show. 
> 
> The quote at the beginning of the chapter is from Henry VI.


	21. Chapter 21

It was easy to lose track of time in a battle, the world either moved too fast or too slow. Years of training couldn’t have prepared him for war, he had to learn the truth for himself – that it wasn’t skill, but luck that got you through it alive. Luck, and sheer bloody determination. Robb gritted his teeth, refusing to die. He couldn’t die, not now, not when he was so close.

He fought his way through the front lines, cutting down anyone who tried to stop him, with Grey Wind never straying from his side. His enemies looked upon him with fear in their eyes. The Young Wolf, they called him, the King who couldn’t die.

The battle was not as easily won as Renly Baratheon had predicted, the Gold Cloaks and Tywin Lannister’s army fought with everything they had. Without their leader, without the Great Lion of House Lannister, they were weaker, disorganized, but fought tooth and nail until the very end. They were fighting to defend their city and their Queen. Robb caught glimpses of the Kingslayer as he cut through men of the City Watch, fighting on the battlements, his armour gleaming and golden in the firelight. He had beat the man once, he could beat him again.

Robb had been clear in his arrangements with Lord Renly, he and his bannermen would fight by his side, but when the battle was won, the North remained free. And Myrcella was a part of the North. She was his Queen, and she wasn’t to be harmed. He had asked that her mother and the Kingslayer might be spared too, for Myrcella’s sake, and Lord Renly had merely shrugged, his pretty Tyrell bride suggesting that they be exiled for their crimes. Lord Renly was a good man, and Robb hoped that he would make a good king.

He did not want to be here again, fighting over a throne, far from his home.

He could see Greatjon ahead of him, already at the King’s Gate. The gate was weakened from the Battle of Blackwater, as Lord Renly had anticipated, and it did not take long for the battering ram to break through. His army stormed into the city, and there, more of the City Watch and the Lannister forces were waiting for them. The streets ran red with blood.

He could see the Red Keep, sitting high above them on Aegon's High Hill. Seeing it made him pause. It was Myrcella’s home, where she had been born, where she had grown up and where she waited for him. With her in his thoughts, Robb charged once more unto the breach.

He was tired, so tired, by the time he reached the Red Keep. His sword was heavy, he could barely lift it. A chance blow to his side had cut through the weak spot in his armour and a knock to the head had left his forehead bleeding and his ears ringing. But he kept going, pushing himself onwards. He couldn’t stop now, not when he was so close. He wanted to be one of the first ones through when they broke down the doors to the Red Keep. He wanted to be there when Renly seized the Iron Throne, but most of all – he wanted to find Myrcella; he wanted to be the one to tell her that they had won, and that she was going home.

The ram battered against the heavy iron doors of the Red Keep, breaking them off their hinges. He didn’t know where Myrcella was, Renly had warned him that she would likely be confined in the Holdfast, where it would be damn near impossible to reach her. But there had to be a way. There was always a way. They charged into the Keep, bloody swords raised, ready for whatever came their way. But the Keep was as silent as the grave, empty, abandoned. As they rushed further into the Keep, he looked back and saw Renly’s Rainbow Guard, rallying around him. In his enamelled green armour and gleaming helm, adorned with a pair of golden antlers, he looked like something from Sansa’s songs. He nodded when he met his eye, a sign of respect that Robb returned.

When they reached the doors to the Throne Room at last, Robb held back, moving to stand beside Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber as the battering ram was brought forward. His friends patted him on the back, looking just as exhausted as he was. It would be a fine day when the war ended and they all finally returned home, back to where they belonged. A fine day indeed.

The ram burst through the doors and a cheer rose up.

The soldiers stormed into the room, all wanting to be there when their King took the throne. Robb watched Renly pass, removing his helm as he walked into the great hall. He thought he heard Grey Wind growl, but the sound was lost in all the noise. Robb ran his fingers through Grey Wind’s fur and followed Renly and his knights into the Throne Room. They had all expected to find the hall empty, and the Iron Throne free for the taking, but they were mistaken.

Robb looked up, and there she was.

His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

For a moment, he almost didn’t recognise her. She had changed, since last he saw her. She sat on the Iron Throne as though she was born to. And perhaps she was. He had imagined this moment more times than he could count, but seeing her again, seeing how her beauty put his imagination to shame, was more than he had ever dreamed. His lips formed her name as he stumbled forwards, no longer remembering who he was or where they were. There was only her.

There was more of her mother in her than before, and a coldness about her that faltered when she saw him push his way through the crowd. As her composure slipped from her grasp, he saw bits of her – flashes of the girl he had once known, who he loved with all his heart. He wanted to run to her, to take her in his arms and kissed her, as he had so often dreamed. But Renly’s hand, falling hard and heavy upon his shoulder, made him pause. Myrcella’s expressed changed, her eyes growing guarded and cold.

She rose from the throne with grace and lifted her chin.

“Uncle.” She said.

Renly bowed his head. “Myrcella.”

“You have won,” Myrcella told him as she stepped down from the throne. Her gaze never strayed from Renly’s face. _Look at me,_ he felt like shouting. _Please._ “There is no need for further bloodshed. I will to hand myself over to you, if you give me your word that no one else will be harmed. I won’t let anyone else die, when we can end this right now.”

“You have my word.” Lord Renly swore. “No one else needs to die.”

“Then by all means, the throne is yours.” And for a brief instant, her gaze flickered to his. There was something in the way she looked at him that he didn’t understand, like she was saying goodbye. He thought he saw years’ worth of regret in her eyes before she blinked and looked away. In the height of his fever, Jeyne had asked him why he loved her. Why he loved a Lannister, when he swore they were his enemies. He loved Myrcella for her courage, her strength, her kindness… and for the way she had crept into his heart, never to be removed.

“No harm will come to you, Myrcella.” Renly promised her. “This isn’t an uprising, and I am not my brother. I have no desire to put your head on a spike. This is me merely… taking back what is rightfully mine.”

Renly took a step towards her, holding out his hands. “We have much to discuss, but this isn’t the place. Bring your councilmen out of hiding. Let us meet in the small council chamber to talk peace.”

Again, Myrcella’s gaze flickered to him. She looked afraid, but she let Renly lead her from the room all the same. Renly’s Rainbow Guard followed. Grey Wind growled, but did not move from his side. Robb watched Myrcella walk away from him and realised he was faced with two choices. He could let her go, or he could do what he had been dreaming about since the moment she left. This was not how he had wanted them to meet again, with fear in Myrcella’s eyes and doubt in his heart. He couldn’t stand back and watch her go, not again.

“Lord Renly,” he called after them. “I would like a moment with my wife.”

Renly looked back at him, his eyebrows slightly lifted. He looked back at Myrcella and smiled faintly.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sure you would. I will go address my men, tell them that the battle is won.” Renly patted Myrcella’s shoulder and the way she flinched didn’t go unnoticed. “We will have to meet later, when the bell tolls.”

When Renly walked away, Robb took a step towards her.

“Myrcella -” He breathed, her name falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Not here.” She murmured, looking anywhere but at him.

He murmured for Grey Wind to stay, and the direwolf sat, licking his bloody muzzle. Myrcella turned without another word, walking down the shadowy corridor with her head bowed. And all he could do was follow silently, unsure what to say or do, save fear that he was too late, that time had changed her, that she loved him no longer. When they reached a raised drawbridge, Myrcella lifted her head. She did not look at him at when he stood by her side, she stared ahead, and called out to whoever stood on the other side.

“Lower the bridge, let me pass.”

“Is that you, Your Grace?” Someone responded as the drawbridge slowly lowered. “I feared the worst.”

“I’m alright,” she sighed. “The battle is over.”

The guard bowed at the sight of her and she thanked him as they passed. It was only when they reached a closed door that she looked at him. When their eyes met, he opened his mouth to speak and she shook her head. “Not yet,” she whispered. She opened the door and took his hand, pulling him into the room with her. She turned away from him and locked the door behind them.

_I need you,_ he thought as he stared at the back of her head. _I can’t do this without you._

He reached out, gently running his fingers through the golden hair he had missed so much.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she murmured. “I thought I’d die without ever -”

Myrcella looked back at him, her eyes wide and afraid. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but right words had abandoned him. And then suddenly, Myrcella’s breath hitched and she threw her arms around his neck. He stumbled back a step, his heart feeling as though it might burst out of his chest when his arms wrapped around her. He held onto her tight, crushing her to his chest, never wanting to let her go.

“I love you,” he suddenly burst, unable to keep the words in anymore. “Do you hear me? I love you!”

His hands found her face, his fingers tangling in her hair, and the green eyes he loved so much met his. “I love you,” he said again. “I love you.” He loved her so much it was tearing him in two. And then, suddenly, he was kissing her. He was kissing her as though he would die if he didn’t, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the kiss. Everything around them disappeared when Myrcella kissed him back, and all he knew was that she was there, she was real, and he would sooner die than ever let her go.

He surged forwards when she moaned quietly against his mouth, pressing her back against the door.

“Tell me nothing has changed,” he whispered against her lips, his voice low. “Tell me you still feel what you once did. Tell me-”

Her lips found his again, kissing him silent. 

He broke away, gasping for breath. “You are my wife. My Myrcella. And if you think I will ever stop fighting for you…” His hands rose to her cheeks, urging her to look at him. Her eyes were wide, filled with an emotion he couldn’t describe. “You are mine, as I am yours.”

Myrcella’s forehead rested against his and she closed her eyes.

“So much has changed,” she said. “All of the things I've done, you would not love me if you knew.”

“Not love you?” The words confused him. “Never.”

“I was so afraid I’d die without ever seeing you again.” Myrcella murmured and he drew away, his brows drawn together in confusion. He ran the pad of his thumb over her lip when it trembled. “But this,” she sighed, “is more than I ever dreamed.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you.” He swore. “You’re safe now.”

But Myrcella shook her head. “He has to kill me. He must.”

“Who? Who must kill you?”

“Renly.” She answered, frowning when she saw the confusion on his face. She stepped around him and looked away, her eyes growing sad as she accepted what she believed to be her fate. “There will be no peace, not if I am still alive. People will still support me and my claim.”

“Renly would not dare to kill you. You are my Queen. The Queen in the North.” He said, and Myrcella’s gaze flashed back to his. There was disbelief in her eyes, like she didn’t believe him. Like she didn’t trust him. He reached out, taking hold of her hands. Her hands were shaking. “Is that what you think?” He asked, an unwelcome note of sadness creeping into his voice. “You think I’d stand by and let you die?”

When she didn’t answer, he tightened his hold on her trembling hands. “It is only the throne that Renly wants, and you gave that to him willingly. So you are free, Myrcella. You have my word. You can come home with me, if that is what you want, or… or if your heart takes you somewhere else, then you are free to follow it.”

Myrcella took a step towards him, her head tilting slightly to the right as she observed him.

“Somewhere else?” She repeated, her voice barely more than a whisper.

_Choose me,_ he longed to say. _Come back to me. Don’t leave me alone again._

Her hands slipped out of his and gently, she touched his cheek. The tips of her fingers ghosted across the dry blood that had run from the wound at his temple and her lips twisted in concern. He watched as slowly, her resolve began to waver. Her lower lip trembled again and she blinked against the tears in her eyes. He drew her to him, wrapping her up in his arms as she began to sob.

“Shhh,” he murmured, stroking her hair, feeling her tears on his skin. “It’s alright, love. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Myrcella drew away from him slowly, her lips finding his. She kissed him desperately, her lips warm and hungry. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, his armour an unwanted barrier between them. She made a soft, familiar sound when he broke away, his lips travelling along her jaw and down her neck. He had missed the smell of her hair, the softness of her skin, and the sweet, heady taste of her mouth.

It shouldn’t be possible to love someone so much, so that it physically _hurt._ But Gods, how he did.

He stumbled back, knees weakening when their lips met again, and hit the door in just the right way to shift his armour against his wound. He gasped into her mouth as pain sliced through him. Myrcella leaned back, her eyes opening. His brow furrowed, unintentionally grimacing at both the pain and the loss of contact. Feeling something warm running down his side and he looked down to see blood seeping through the leather of his armour.

Myrcella’s eyes followed his gaze. “Robb, you’re -”

“I’m fine,” he breathed before he caught her face to kiss her again.

“You’re hurt,” she protested again his lips. “You’re bleeding.” He clutched her closer, kissing the words away.

“I don’t care.” He muttered, his voice low and rough.

Myrcella’s hands pressed against his shoulders, pushing him away from her.

“ _I_ care.” She said and he looked down and saw that his blood was on her, the red standing out on her pale blue dress. He murmured an apology and she smiled slightly. Gods, how he had missed her smile. He gently traced the shape of her lips with the tips of his fingers and the corner of mouth twitched into a small, but fond smile. “Come with me.” She ordered softly before she leaned in and kissed him one last time.

Myrcella reached around him and unlocked the door. He sighed as she left the room, following her after a brief moment of hesitation. He followed her in silence, her words echoing in his thoughts. _I care. I care. I care._ But did she love him still, or had her heart changed? He longed to ask her, but sensed that this wasn’t the time, nor the place. But it mattered not, he made himself remember. They had time.

It was quiet in this part of the Keep, untouched by the battle. The drawbridge had been raised once more, barring anyone else from entering. Robb took in the walls and the tapestries with a strange sort of wonder. This was where Myrcella had grown up, where a part of her heart would always lie. There was so much he wanted to ask her, but the words got caught in his throat. He could only follow her silently as she led the way. They stopped when they reached a closed door and she knocked, calling out to whoever lurked within. He heard the jingle of keys and then the door slowly opened, revealing the frightened face of a small, ancient looking man with a long white beard.

“Your Grace!” The old man cried. “When – when I heard the news, I – I feared -”

The old man’s gaze passed to him and his eyes narrowed. “My dear lady, who – who is this?”

“Someone who requires your assistance.” Myrcella said, regarding the man in an unflinching, queenly manner that made her look so much like her mother that he had to look away. The old man shrunk under her gaze and allowed for the door to swing open, shuffling into the room, where every horizontal surface was covered in herbs or vials or dusty tomes. Robb stepped inside, his eyebrows lifting slightly in confusion. Myrcella directed him towards the old man, who took one look at him and sighed.

“Your armour,” the old man muttered. “Remove it.”

Robb didn’t like this man. There was something in his manner he distrusted. But he complied, all the same.

Unbuckling his pauldrons and removing his steel breastplate was no easy task when his fingers trembled so under Myrcella’s gaze. It was difficult to move, his wound burning whenever he tried to twist to the side even the slightest bit. It was a relief when he finally shed his armour and was left in only his undershirt. The old man dragged up a stool and sat in front of him, pushing up his shirt to examine his injury. Robb kept his gaze fixed on Myrcella as the old man cleaned and tended to the wound. She paled visibly when the man pushed the edges of the gash together with his hand and though the pain had subsided somewhat, he grimaced at the uncomfortable feeling of the needle tugging and threading through his skin as it stitched the wound closed.

“Is it true, Your Grace?” The old man asked when he wrapped a bandage around Robb’s torso. “Has – has Lord Renly taken the city?”

“Yes, it is true.” Myrcella answered, her eyes never leaving his. “And when the bell tolls, we are to meet with him in the small council chamber. I wouldn’t fear for your position though, I’m sure he will be in need of a Grand Maester, when all this is over.”

“It is House Lannister that I serve, not some – some traitorous usurper!” The old Maester protested indignantly, tying Robb’s bandage with more force than was necessary. The Maester got to his feet, knees clicking, and shuffled over to the wash basin to clean the blood from his hands. Robb muttered his thanks, assessing his work before he donned his armour once more. The old man looked back as he dried his hands, his multiple chins quivering. “The throne is yours by _right._ The common people will never accept -”

Myrcella sighed. “Too many have died, Maester Pycelle. And for what?”

“It is your birthright!” The old man objected. “No – no – this isn’t right, Your Grace. The Gods -”

“Thank you for your loyalty.” Myrcella interjected. “I won’t forget it. You have served me and my family well, but I can ask no more of you. Serve Lord Renly if you wish, or retire to the countryside. Do as you will, but leave me out of it.”

“But, my Queen -”

“I no longer desire to be Queen.” Myrcella said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to inform the others.”

Myrcella turned away, avoiding his gaze as she left the room. He nodded his head in thanks at the old man, but he didn’t seem to notice. The Grand Maester stared after Myrcella, not looking like man torn between his loyalties to his Queen and his duty, but like a man who had gambled and lost. Robb walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

“There’s so much I have to tell you.” Myrcella told him when they were alone. “But -”

And then the bells began to ring.

“It’s alright,” he said. “We have time.”

He reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled faintly, but the crease didn’t fade from between her brows. They walked in silence together, Myrcella guiding him back to the drawbridge. It was there, at the drawbridge, that she left him. He watched her walk away from him, hating the feeling of doubt that settled heavily on his chest. He crossed the drawbridge, telling himself that they had all the time in the world. They would speak later, just like she had promised.

But later didn’t come.

He lay awake that night, in a strange bed, in a strange place far from home, listening to the waves crashing against the rocks below. He wanted to dream of Winterfell, but sleep evaded him. He tossed and turned for hours and in the end, sighed, and gave up. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling with arms folded behind his head. He didn’t like this place; the heat, the smell, the sound of the sea and the strange stars above him. He needed to go home, to where he belonged. He’d been gone too long.

But the trouble wouldn’t end when he went home, he had come to realise. The Greyjoys were creating problems, as they always did, and he needed to find his sister. He had to know where she was, and what had happened to her. He couldn’t believe that she had perished – no, Arya was quick and clever, and too bull-headed for her own good. It had given Septa Mordane grey hairs in their lessons, but it would help her, if she was on her own somewhere. She was alright. She had to be. He couldn’t bear to lose anyone else.

He closed his eyes, imagining a better, kinder world – where he returned to Winterfell with Myrcella and his father and Arya, and he got to see the look on his mother’s face and his siblings’ faces when they were all reunited. He even imagined Tommen, and the way Myrcella’s face would light up when she saw him. It hurt like a knife in the gut.

What good was being king if he could not protect the ones he loved?

He sighed, turning to lie on his side. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, let alone himself, a small part of him was afraid of what was going to happen when he went home. He would have to face his mother and his brothers and Sansa, and tell them that he failed, that he couldn’t bring his father back like he promised. And now he had to face the possibility that he might be going home without his wife.

And in the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, his door quietly opened.

His eyes flashed open, roused easily from his light, dreamless slumber, and reached for his sword out of habit. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly as he sat up, eyes trying to see through the darkness. He heard light footsteps and he reached out to push aside the curtains which hung from the four poster bed. His sword slipped from his grasp and he released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Myrcella stood at his bedside, looking like something out of a dream.

She looked different – she looked more like the Myrcella he remembered, not the Queen he had glimpsed today. The coldness she’d worn like armour was gone. Her hair was plaited loosely to one side, and she was wearing a dark grey cloak over her dress. She smiled hesitantly, like she wasn’t sure if she welcome, and wrung her hands, something she only did when she was nervous…

He blinked, unsure if he could trust his eyes. He spoke her name without realising it and reached for her.

She took his hand and he dragged her into his arms. And in that moment, he didn’t care if it was a dream, as long as it never ended. Her arms wrapped around him and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her lips warm against his collarbone.  In her arms, he was home.

“Myrcella,” he sighed.

And when she pulled away, it was not in her eyes that there were tears, but his. She raised her hand, gently cupping his cheek. He leaned into her hand, eyes desperately taking in every little detail, committing this moment to memory, so that it should never fade from his thoughts. Once there had been a time when he looked at her and been resentful, he had thought her to be a punishment for some crime he had not known he had committed. He had asked the Gods for love, and they had given it.

He leaned in, letting his eyes fall shut as he rested his forehead against hers.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For everything.”

He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“How is Tommen? Is he –”

“He’s well, I promise you. He’s safe, in Riverrun. No one knows who he is, but even if they did, no one would breathe a word of it to anyone.” He replied, opening his eyes as he gently draws her hand from his face so that he can kiss the inside of her palm. “He misses you. He wasn’t happy when he couldn’t come with me, he wanted to storm the castle and save you.”

She smiled at that, and turned her hand so that her fingers threaded through his.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen.” She sighed, looking down at their hands, watching them intently. “I spent so long wishing for this moment, but I never stopped to think about what might come after. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or the day after that. The Martells won’t let me go without a fight, not if they think I’m still useful to them. But I can’t go back – I can’t go back there - sometimes, the thought of going home to you was all that kept me going… ”

Myrcella’s gaze flickered to his and he tightened his hold on her hand.

“There’s so much you don’t know –”

He brought her hand to his lips, kissing the back of her palm. “So tell me.”

“If I tell you…” She murmured slowly. “You won’t love me anymore.”

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest that there was nothing she could ever do to stop him from loving her, as hopeless and painful as loving her was, but she held up her hand and looked at him at last. There was fear in her eyes. Fear and doubt. He wondered what they had done to her, to make his brave Myrcella so afraid. Peace be damned, he would see Dorne burn to the ground if it meant making her happy.

“I made choices,” she said at last. “There’s no one I can blame but myself. I let a little boy die in my brother’s place. I married another – I _lay_ with another, do you understand? I could have tried harder to get back to you, but I was afraid.”

“I tried to be brave and strong like you, but I didn’t know how. I was too afraid of what Joffrey might do, not to me – but to Tommen. I thought he might hurt him, to hurt me. The way he used to. And Beth -” Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands. He still remembered the day the Pooles and Beth Cassel returned to Winterfell, and the look she gave him when he asked about Myrcella.

“I still forgave him though,” she murmured and lifted her head from her hands. “For everything.”

“It’s what I do, Robb. I forgive them, because I have to. My family are a part of me, and if Joffrey was a monster, then so am I.” She’d never talked to him like this, never shared what had happened to her before her life in Winterfell. A small part of him had always feared that she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him everything, but maybe that wasn’t it – perhaps she hadn’t told him, because she hadn’t been able to yet. He understood now, that there were things which couldn’t be talked about. Like his father. He wasn’t sure he could ever tell anyone what it felt like to bury him, not even Myrcella…

“Beginning tomorrow, there’s going to be a trial.” She told him suddenly. “I don’t know what I will be on trial for, but you were right – I don’t think Renly wishes to see me dead. He wants to be liked by the common people, and seen as fair.”

He frowned. “A trial? Are you certain?”

“Yes, he told me so himself.” She said as she brushed her thumb over his bruised knuckles. She glanced up at him and smiled faintly. “He told me what you said, that you would only fight for him if he promised that no harm would come to me. He said I was lucky to have someone who loved me so much, in spite of everything I’ve done.”

He pulled her into his arms, needing her closer. Her arms slid around him, her fingers curling around his nightshirt. “Everyone believes that what we had wasn’t real. In their eyes, I’m married to Quentyn, and belong to Dorne,” she murmured. Her lips, soft against his neck, made him shiver. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I’m not afraid anymore.”

His hands found her face when she drew away, and a smile broke out across his face.

“What are you saying?” He asked, needing to hear her say the words.

“The Dornish think I belong to them. They’ll call our children bastards, and say terrible things – but I don’t care. I love you, and there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than here, with you.” _Even if it’s just for a moment._ He heard the words she left unsaid, and deep inside, he knew that the Dornish wouldn’t let her go without a fight. But if she wasn’t afraid, then neither was he.

There was so much he needed to say, so much he had to tell her – but he couldn’t find the words. Perhaps the words he wanted didn’t even exist. He didn’t understand the feeling in his chest, which was agony, yet screamed that it was _home,_ that it was right, that he would die without it. He wasn’t sure he could face another moment without her, he didn’t know if he could survive losing her a second time.

He released the breath he hadn’t even known he had been holding, and surged forwards to press his lips against hers. He didn’t care if he was dreaming – he’d never dreamed something so sweet, so painfully beautiful. As he deepened the kiss, his hand cupped her cheek while the other carted through her hair. He kissed her to keep himself from drowning, needing her like air.

As Myrcella dragged his nightshirt off over his head and tossed it aside, he found himself falling back, against the pillows. Myrcella leaned over him, fingers carefully running over the bandaged tied tightly around his waist. Her long hair, pulled loose from its braid, hung around them like a curtain when she leaned down to press kisses down his chest.

“We should stop.” She sighed. “You’re hurt. You shouldn’t –”

“Don’t stop.” He breathed, and reached for her, dragging her lips back to his. “Please don’t stop.”

She drew away for a moment, eyes searching his for something.

Those eyes – for too long he’d had to be without them, living with poor substitutes. He’d been wrong before, Tommen and the Kingslayer didn’t have her eyes. The shape and the shade of green was the same, but the light, and the life inside of them, was all her.

“Alright,” she murmured. “We don’t have to stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the worst kind of person for making you all wait so long between updates and for ending, kind of, on a cliff hanger. I know, I know. I moved house and my computer broke and then I went on holiday - buuut, hopefully now that I means I will be able to update sooner. I love you guys, and thanks so much for reading even though I take forever to update <3


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